


A Life for a Life, Makes the Whole World Bound

by augopher



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison and Aiden are still dead though, Alpha Scott McCall, Alternate Universe- Canon Divergence (from middle of s03e24 on- Kate did not come back), Angst, BAMF Stiles, Beta Derek Hale, Birthday Party, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Blow Jobs, College Applications (Are very stressful), Coming Out, Coming Untouched, Dancing, Declarations Of Love, Derek Saves Stiles, Dissociation (Magic/Mystical), Djinn Servant & Master Bond, Djinni & Genies, Djinni!Stiles, F/M, Fanart, Feels galore, Getting Together, Hookah, Hurt Derek, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Indoor Climbing, Insecure Stiles Stilinski, Isaac Comes Back, Kidnapped Stiles, Lonely Stiles Stilinski, M/M, Magical Bond, Magical Tattoos, Mentions of past non-con and dub-con, Misunderstandings, Mutual Dubious/Non Consent Due to Supernatural Influences, Mutual Oblivious Pining, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out About Derek/Stiles Relationship, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Burn, So much angst, Soundtrack Linked, Sterekhaven Bigbang, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles Saves Himself, Stiles Smokes, Stiles Takes Care Of The Pack, Stiles can shape shift, Stiles saves Derek, Stiles’ name is NOT Genim, Stilinski Family Feels, Surprise Turn-Ons, Tattooed Stiles, Witches, and probably other tags (let me know if i missed something glaring), night club, stiles saves the pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-11
Updated: 2015-07-11
Packaged: 2018-04-08 17:09:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 90,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4313367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/augopher/pseuds/augopher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles was lonely; there was no other way of putting it. The Nogitsune had left the pack a wary of him, not that they thought it had been his fault. No, they worried it would happen again. Once bitten, twice shy.<br/>The morning after his 18th birthday, his torso was covered in mysterious green tattoos. He hadn’t been that drunk. He'd definitely remember that. Great. Something else to make him feel like a freak. Insomnia led him to his mother’s diary and a tale of how she helped an odd man once who gave her the warning, “Be careful of your wishes three." Everything clicked into place.<br/>So...he was a djinni. He subtly changed things about himself. More muscle? Done. Better hair? Done and done. End his crippling insecurity? Done, done, done. He hid his new gift until he found himself bound to Derek.<br/>With Deaton’s help, they translated meanings in his tattoos, but they were incomplete. A passage of his 'Rules and Regulations' was missing. Everything was fine dandy until Stiles’ new powers and penchant for mischief and karmic retribution threatened to destroy him, fracture his mind, and turn him into something which couldn’t be contained.<br/>Could the pack save him in time, and at what price?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Last of Her Good Days

**Author's Note:**

> Soundtrack can be found here[x](https://8tracks.com/augopher/a-life-for-a-life-makes-the-whole-world-bound?)
> 
> My contribution to [Sterekhaven](http://www.sterekhaven.tumblr.com) Bigbang. What need only be a fic of at least 20,000 words turned into this monstrosity. Word counts and I do not see eye to eye
> 
> Original art created by [fandom-madnessess](http://www.fandom-madnessess.tumblr.com)
> 
> A HUGE thank you to my beta [apinkducky](http://www.apinkducky.tumblr.com/) for her help editing this beast in two days. Seriously, she's awesome. Without her, this fic would have so many errors. 
> 
>  
> 
> Track Listing Chapter One: “You Are My Sunshine”- The Civil Wars  
> Polish translation for Chapter One:  
> Dzięki- thanks  
> mój jelonku- my fawn  
> Mamusia- Mommy

Claudia stared out the window of her hospital room. Today had been a good day, a day where she felt like herself instead of the stranger she knew she'd become. The small clock on her bedside table read 03:45. Stiles would be here soon, just like he was everyday after school. She smiled.Her little Maciej was the light of her life, even if he wanted to be called by the nickname he crafted for himself instead of his given name, the one he shared with her father.

 

Her illness had been hard on the whole family. On days like today, she could see the way it ate at her husband, John, to watch her slip away in front of his eyes, wondering if tomorrow she'd even recognize him. Stiles was eight and probably didn't understand everything she was going through, but the barely contained terror in his eyes on the bad days said he understood enough. She just wished she'd be around for him longer, to see the man he grew up to be. See him graduate, in love, get married someday, maybe. Hold her grandchildren if ever he had any.

 

Wishes...They never got anyone what they want-

 

Then, she recalled a moment during her year studying abroad in Greece. The streets of Athens bustled with people, and nearby, a man got knocked down in the middle of the crowded street. Worried about him being trampled, she'd helped him up out of the way. He'd grabbed her wrists and after a shaky 'Thank you' told her to 'Beware her three wishes.' At the time she laughed and thought nothing of it.

 

Why did she think of that out of nowhere? It wasn't like wishes really came true anyway. Though, she thought, maybe they did.

 

A year out of college, the migraines she'd suffered sporadically from as a teen, began plaguing her several times a week. Once, after lying in bed for two days, barely moving, she begged for the headaches to stop. Strangely enough, they had. Had it been a weird coincidence? The more she thought about it, the more she thought probably not.

  
Several years ago, John was shot in the line of duty trying to break up a fight. She hoped for him to always be safe on the job. Soon after, he was appointed Undersheriff, and as such, spent more time at the station doing administrative work.

 

She lay back onto her pillow and continued watching the squirrels scamper outside her window while she waited for Stiles to arrive. To think, her and John had been told they would never have a child, that they would need a miracle to get pregnant. She wished for a child so badly, a child of her own, and they got one.

  
One...two...three-- Suddenly the man's words took hold in her brain. 'Beware.'

 

Now, here she was, dying of a degenerative brain disease. Though John had been safer on the job, he spent so much time at work that he barely knew Stiles. How would the two of them fare after she was gone if he didn't know or understand his son? Stiles...Oh God, what had she done? The first two wishes had backfired. What would the third wish do to her boy?

 

Almost as if he knew she needed him, Stiles walked through the door.

  
"Hi, Mamusia." He said, climbing onto the hospital bed with her, the way he always did. "It's time for our show." He grabbed the remote and turned on the television. Soon, _Jeopardy_ filled the screen, and he snuggled in beside her.

 

Claudia ran her hands through his hair as they watched, chatting back and forth in Polish like it was their own special thing. On days like today, she could actually remember the language of her parents.

 

"What is skydiving?" Stiles answered to the clue 'Jumping out of an airplane'

 

"You're so smart, mój jelonku." She kissed the top of his head.

  
"Dzięki, Mamusia."

  
"So, how was school today, Maciusiu?" They began discussing his day, and her fears about the mysterious man's words were forgotten.

  
That day turned out to be the last of her good days. She never had the chance to tell anyone about her last wish and what it could possibly mean for her boy.


	2. Stiles Stilinski's Drunken Words of Wallowing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> Scene 1: “Seven Nation Army (Glitch Mob Dubstep Remix)- The White Stripes  
> Scene 2-4: “You”- The Pretty Reckless

The music pounded inside the Martin residence as Stiles moved through the party, _ his _ party, beer in hand. It was his fourth...no wait- fifth beer. Hiccup. Maybe it was number six. He couldn't remember.

Someone had announced birthday shots about half an hour ago, maybe. Cuervo  had been  poured, and ugh, Stiles and tequila did not get along. Hopefully, he would not start dancing on any furniture this time. Whatever, he was totally not responsible for the fiasco that was Lydia's Christmas party junior year. So what if he ended up dancing with the Christmas tree ? The point was that tequila was an evil bastard hell bent on ruining Stiles' life.

He rubbed his eyes; the room had long since grown a little blurry. Where the hell was Derek? The asshole swore he would come to this party, though Stiles did get the distinct impression it was lip service. _ Ha, lip service! I'll show you my idea of lip service. _ There had been an itch just under Stiles' skin all day in anticipation of seeing the guy .N ow that the major roadblock of Stiles being underage had been eliminated , Stiles fully intended to flirt his ass off. He'd even brought his A game, which, to be honest was pretty damn pathetic now that he thought about it.

Fresh air was definitely needed. Outside, he took a nice big breath to clear his head. There were just too many people in the place- made his head spin.

Stiles rested his head against the decorative column on Lydia's back porch; the chill of the brick felt nice against his all too warm skin. Somewhere in the chaos of the party, he'd lost all his friends...and apparently, he found as he stared down at his feet, his left shoe. _ Now how the hell did that _ _…_ Lydia was far too busy playing hostess. He'd seen her for like three minutes total.  He was pretty sure he watched Scott and Kira duck into an upstairs bedroom at some point.  Malia? Well who knows?  Not that they were close friends, but still.

Wow, did he actually have so few friends?

_ Must be nice to have someone. _ Stiles felt he would wind up alone forever, or at least while everyone else continued to see him as awkward and weird. He knew what he looked like, skinny and pale, but it wasn't like he looked like a troll or anything. Someone had to find his aesthetic appealing. Leave it to him to put his belief in yet another unattainable person.

He sighed and finished his beer. Ever since Eichen House and the ill-advised, unprotected loss of his V-card, no one had even looked his way. Sure would have been nice to actually enjoy his first time, instead of remembering it through a haze of drugs, sleep deprivation, and a demonic fox possession. He liked to imagine that Malia agreed.

_ Stupid Stiles, so stupid. _

A weight settled into the pit of his stomach, and he no longer felt confident about what he'd say to Derek if the man actually showed. By now, Stiles thought they were friends. You don't just blow off a birthday party you said you'd come to. Rude.

Not one to wallow in public, he sat down his empty beer bottle and ventured back inside. A large group danced in the living room. He could definitely stand for some mindless dancing, and waded  into the mob. With the pulsing beat and alcohol fueled buzz, he pushe d his insecurity to the back of his mind for the time being .

He had a good time dancing with some girl from his calculus class ( h e'd remember her name if her face hadn't been so blurry), made out with some guy from gym class in his sophomore year ( h is name, well Stiles wouldn't remember even with a clear vision of the guy's face). It was nice, but not who he really wanted to dance with or lose himself in frantic kisses with. Less than forty-five minutes later, he gave up. He just wanted to go home.

Now, he was drunk, but not so drunk he didn't realize it. Keys stowed in his jacket pocket, he zipped up, preparing for the long walk home. _ See Scott, this is why you don't ditch your friend for a good time. You said you'd drive me home. Thanks a fucking lot. _

 

_* * * * *_

  
  


Less than two blocks from Lydia's house, his disappointment at the way the evening had turned out hit him like a train, and he almost started crying. _Damn it, Derek. Damn you. Some friend you are. I am so pissed you didn't show._ He sat down on the curb to calm his nerves.

"What are you doing out here? Sick of your party already?"

Stiles looked up. In his drunken state, he recognized the voice but not the face. "Yeah. S'not as much fun as I was hoping. Someone I really wanted to see tonight- have a crush on, maybe even am in love with, didn't pan out. Wha'ever. Their loss, and their stupidlyattractive face missed out on all this charm." Stiles pointed to himself.

"You just gestured to all of you." Derek 's stomach  churned at the thought of Stiles being in love with someone who wasn't him.

"You, handsomerandommanare... correct."

"Do you need a ride?"

"I'm not," hiccup, "supposedtotakeridesfrompeople I don'know." He slurred out in a rush. "Stranger danger s'real problem."

Derek laughed. "How much have you had to drink, Stiles?"

"Jus'a lil'bit. S 'why I'm walking home. Drinki n’ an’ drivin’ is a crim’nal ‘fense, Dude.  Or I was. Felt shitty about m'self. Sat down here," he patted the curb, "on s'nice piece of sidewalk to wallow."

"Well, I'm not a stranger. We're friends."

Stiles scoffed. "I could use more of those. Turns out I have like," he counted on his fingers, "five friends." He hiccuped as he noticed he'd held up three not five fingers, which he quickly remedied. "Yeah five friends." He buried his head in his hands. "Fuck, I'm so pathetic. Jus' stopmefromtalking. And anyway, we can't be friends if I don't know your name."

Derek rolled his eyes. "It's Derek. Wow, you really are drunk."

"Yep." He let the 'p' pop off his lips as he looked up at the sky. "Hey! I know a Derek."

He opened the car  door for Stiles and helped him into the passenger seat, making sure Stiles buckled up. When Derek sat down behind the wheel, he glanced over to see Stiles staring at him glassy-eyed with a silly grin on his face.

"What?"

  
"You're a lot nicer than the other Derek I know. He pro b' ly would ' ve laughed," hiccup , "at me and left me on the curb.  Threa'end me or something."

Ouch. Did Stiles really think that about him? Derek tried not to let his disappointment show. "What makes you say that?"

"Cause he's an asshole. He pretends to care 'bout someone, then... guess he's a liar. Hell, I know I'm allkindsofannoying, and he's pro ' ly jus' toleratin' me for the sake of Scott, but I thought we're friends, ya know? Damn it, I have good qualities too. Jus' nobody cares to see them." He huffed. "Ignore me. I'm jus' at that point of drunkenness when you think the world's agains'you. Be fine in the mornin'. You know, pretendin ’ nothing bothers me."

Derek swallowed hard. Truthfully, he had just spent the last two hours psyching himself up for the party. He wasn't big on parties; they were too loud, which being a werewolf and all, was a big problem. Still, he'd wanted to ask Stiles to dance, and that shouldn't have required so much effort. Flirting to get something trivial out of someone was easy, but Derek struggled with flirting when he only _ liked _ someone.  This , h is affection  for Stiles, was taking, and would continue to take, a Herculean effort to confess. A dance had seemed like the safest place to start.

Now, hearing how badly Stiles believed everyone saw him, especially how the guy thought _ he _ saw him, made  Derek's heart clench with a need t o go out of his way to fix i t. "Do you want me to kick this other Derek guy's ass?"

Stiles licked his lips. "No, thank you. He's pret ’ damn strong, and you're really hot. I'd hate for your face to ge ’ fucked up." He reached across the console to pet Derek's stubble. "So, so hot. Anyone e ’ er tell you that?"

"Once or twice. If this guy is such an asshole, why did you want him to come to your party?"

"Duh, weren'tcha listening? I thought he was my friend. Really, he shouldn't feel too bad for not coming. Prett'sure Lydia paid e'ryone outside our circle to come. I'm not really...let's jus' say people don' like me. Don' wanna hang out with me. Or date me, and let's be honest, as far as that goes, I'm pretty open on that front. Nope. Jus' strange Stilinksi, good for laugh but l'il else."

"Open? ” Derek swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry at the prospect of Stiles also liking guys. “ I was under the impression you liked girls."

"Girls. I love girls; I love them. Love breasts and soft skin, thewaytheirhairbounceswhentheywalk, the way they smell. Girls, they're great. Would love to have more int ’ mate knowledge of them. Love them, but...guys. Musclesareseriouslyhot, Man! Look like you know all 'bout muscles. Betcha look like a god under clothes. Scruff an ’ stubble-- extra plus." He gave Derek a thumbs up. "Plus, apparently my mouth was like made for sucking dick, or so I've been told. Haven't had the opportun ’ ty to put that to the test."

Derek almost choked on...nothing.

"Oh who'm I kidding?" Stiles asked, scrubbing his face with his hands. "No one s'gonna wan' me, not when they see the beau'ful people I'm friends with. I'm like the Ugly Betty of the group." He sighed and turned to look out the window. "Why in the hell would he even gimme a second glance?" He said under his breath, leaning his forehead against the glass, and remained silent the rest of the way to his house.

  
  
  
  
  


*** * ***

  
  


After stopping on the front porch for Stiles to throw up on the steps, Derek helped him in the house and up the stairs to his room. Seriously, the guy was more than just a little drunk. Had Derek left him to his own devices, he was sure Stiles would have fallen down the stairs and broken his neck. Derek would have none of that.

"You're s'much nicer than the other Derek." Stiles patted the back of his bedroom door. "That guy threw me up agains'this very door once. Look, thanks for helpin ’ me out. I think I got it from here."

"You sure?"

Stiles just shrugged. "We'll see."

"Well, let me get you a glass of water before you go to sleep. It will help with the hangover." Derek didn't let Stiles protest before he left and retreated downstairs. Luckily, he found a bottle of Gatorade in the fridge. Taking a couple Advil from the bathroom medicine cabinet, returned to Stiles' room, only to find him asleep, face down on his bed, still in his jacket and... right shoe. Where the hell was the left one? He set the drink and pills on Stiles' nightstand. The shoe was easy to remove; the jacket on the other hand-- Well, that took some work.

Eventually, he managed to get him under the covers. He scribbled a little note onto sticky note:

_ When you wake up, take the Advil and drink this. Your hangover won't be so bad. _

_ PS- I cleaned the puke off the front steps. You're welcome. I hope you don't feel too bad today. _

  
What? Just because he couldn't get drunk, you know, werewolf and all, didn't mean he didn't know what to do for a hangover. His dad had been human after all. Glancing over at the clock on his way out of the room, he laughed. Now that he didn't have one anymore, Stiles had actually made it home fifteen minutes before his midnight curfew.

Sighing, Derek filled a bucket with Pine-Sol and went to clean up the mess outside, figuring Stiles would like to avoid his father finding out about him drinking.

 

 

*** * ***

  
  


"Oh God. I'm dying. Actually, literally dying." Stiles groaned, rolling over the next morning. "How the hell did I get here?" He rubbed his head. The last thing he remembered was...yeah that guy was a pretty good kisser. Shame he couldn't remember his name.

His eyes fell on his nightstand and the piece of paper upon it. He picked up the note, instantly recognizing the neat handwriting; all caps could only be Derek's. Oh God, Derek had been there last night. He'd seen Stiles in a drunken, probably weepy mess. Son of a- Then again, he cleaned up Stiles' vomit, so he must not have been too mad.

Whatever. He'd deal with that later. Following the note's directions, he swallowed the pills with a large gulp of sport's drink. A shower sounded fantastic. Plus it would probably be best to wash off the alcohol smell as best he could before heading downstairs to see his dad.

He shuffled across the hall. Shutting the door behind him, he flipped on the light and shucked his shirt. He took one look in the mirror and shrieked.

From downstairs, he heard his dad call out, "What's the matter, Stiles? You okay?"

No. No, he was not okay. He could explain away the hickey on his neck easy enough. But the rest... "Nothing, Dad! The water was just really cold. Surprised me." He said turning on the water as he stared at his reflection. Hangover immediately gone due to shock, he could see that his chest was no longer just a pale expanse of mostly unmarked skin. Now, his entire torso and at least a quarter of his arms were adorned with strange green markings. The way they swirled together entranced him. Some patterns looked a bit like a lotus flower, in an abstract way. Several little eight-pointed stars sat encircled in scroll-work. A crescent or two found their way in as well. There were some patterns that resembled paisleys. Others looked familiar but unplaceable. All of them were beautiful, strange, but beautiful nonetheless. He leaned as close to the mirror as he could, trying to make out the details. Curious, he turned around and looked over his shoulder, and yep, his back was just as marked, this time in what appeared to be one singular piece of art. One: What in the hell? And two: Wow, that was seriously gorgeous. Someone would have to pay thousands to get a tattoo that looked like that.

He didn't recall meeting any witches or faeries...or other supernatural creatures since the last time he showered , y esterday after gym class. These markings weren't here before his party. His skin stung a little, a bit like a sunburn underneath every piece of green.

Just one problem...he did NOT ask for any of these, nor did he want th em . One more thing to make him feel like a weirdo. Great, just great.

It didn't help that not only did he still feel self-conscious, but also these new brands that appeared overnight terrified him. W as that what they were ? He sure felt like he'd been branded. Might as well mark his hand with a bright red F for freak. He sat down on the floor of the tub and, face buried in his knees, let the water wash over him while he cried.

After his shower and a quick scrub to make sure that they were not made with markers (they weren ’t) , he poked his head into the hall, scanning for his father. He could still hear him downstairs. So, Stiles rushed across the hall to his room to find a shirt that would cover all of the marks .

When he rifled through his clothes, none of them appealed to him today, and not just in a 'Let's cover my probably  magical mystery tattoos' kind of way. Why in the hell did he own this much plaid? There would be no plaid today. He was in a strictly plaid-free kind of mood.

Finally, he found a long - sleeved baseball tee that fit pretty well, it's charcoal colored body and burgundy sleeves would hide the green markings pretty well. The hickey however- _ ah fuck it _ . Thankfully, it was Saturday, so he had all weekend to devise a way to not change in front of everyone for cross - country. Before he tugged the shirt on over his head, he took a glance in the mirror on the backside of his closet door and sighed. It sure would be nice if he didn't look so scrawny. He thought that two years of running with wolves and fighting supernatural bad guys and menacing hunters would have given him some kind of muscle definition. Nope. He stared up at the ceiling and presumably the heavens. "Just a little muscle, that's all I'm asking. Help a guy out would you?"

No longer shirtless, he put on his 'What are you talking about? Everything's fine.' mask he'd perfected in those few months after the Nogitsune. He was an expert at it now. Especially, when at that current moment, he was anything but fine.

"How was your party?" John asked, not looking up from his morning paper as  his son came into the kitchen .

"Kind of lame." Stiles poured himself a coffee. No joke, that hangover left immediately when he saw the state of his torso.

John glanced at him, studying his son for a moment. "Lame? But not so lame enough to get,"  he pointed to Stiles' neck, "t hat."

Stiles blushed, or at least he thought he did. Normally, he'd blush if something like that had been pointed out, but this time, there was no heat in his cheeks or the back of his neck...or his ears. So maybe he didn't blush after all. Maybe he was too dehydrated, or more probable, his shocking discovery made him immune to any embarrassment today. "Yeah, that didn't pan out." He took a drink. Ah nectar of the gods. "Wasn't up for a hook-up, and they most certainly were."

John didn't look entirely convinced. "You know I don't care if you're having sex so long as you're using protection."

"I swear. There was no sexing up Stiles last night. This," he pointed to his neck, "was a little fun, but nothing more than that. Why? Does it look bad?"

His father laughed. "You might want to reconsider your choice of shirt today."

He considered his father's opinion. What did he have to do to day? _ Think Stiles, think, think. _ Oh yeah, Scott was treating him to lunch as a birthday present. "You're probably right." Once upstairs, he desperately tried to find a shirt that matched his mood. _ Match my mood? What the hell is wrong with me? _ He rolled his eyes, and grabbed the first hoodie he could find, leaving the house ten minutes later for Scott's.

 

 


	3. A Toast to the Death of Plaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> “Ugly (Acoustic)- The Exies

Stiles sat at his desk early that Saturday morning. Unable to sleep, he'd woken up at the asscrack of dawn to scroll through page after page of pointless results. Three weeks since his mysterious markings appeared, and he was still at a loss as to what the hell made them.

In a carefully coordinated choice of wardrobe, no one was the wiser. Gym and cross-country practice? Throw on a long-sleeved shirt in the privacy of a bathroom stall after class and then shower at home afterward. Pack nights? Hoodies-always with hoodies. No longer did he walk across the hall after a shower clad only in a towel. Even in the mornings, just in case he could be seen from the window, he changed in the bathroom where there were no windows.

Never before had he felt so ashamed by an aspect of his appearance. Okay, so he was scrawny. Fine. There was a three month phase in fourth grade where he hated his nose. He got over it. Someone made fun of his moles once, and he cried for a few days until his mother told him that they were  faerie kisses . Look, the thing was, he didn't dislike the way he looked. He knew he looked like his mother, and she had been beautiful. No,  h is self-consciousness stemmed entirely from not looking good enough, or that no one else appreciated it. The point was, those stupid tattoos, markings, whatthehellever they were had no place on his body, and he just wanted to get rid of them.

However, unlike regular tattoos, these appeared magically which meant, in order to make them go away, he needed to figure out where they came from and perhaps plead his case with whatever supernatural creature thought it cute to curse him with them. Body modification was a personal choice, thank you very much, and one he did not make. After backing out of yet another useless page on Google about runic tattoos, he groaned and let his head hit the desk. These were not runes. He knew what those looked like.

Over the three weeks, what were at first just jade green markings had progressively turned darker. Now, they were a lovely shade of myrtle, and showed through any light colored shirt he owned. Oh, and speaking of shirts, he decided last week that he hated, absolutely _ hated _ plaid, detested it with the passion of the entire Rebel Alliance and never wished to wear it again.  However, since that seemed to be all he owned besides sweatshirts, he was kind of stuck. Scott found his sentiments on the hideous tartan print hilarious...

... _ Stiles sat his lunch tray down on their table in the cafeteria. "Do I wear too much plaid?" _

_ Scott finished chewing the bite of apple in his mouth. "Dude, you wear it almost every day. So what? You're a guy; our clothing choices are limited." _

_ Stiles took a bite of pizza. "See that's exactly my problem. Why in the hell do I wear it so much? Doesn't it look stupid or something, make me look like some middle aged, suburban accountant? Or a frail, beardless mountain man?" _

_ "You look fine," Scott said, taking in Stiles' appearance. _

_ "I don't know. I feel like a lumberjack." _

_ "Dude, are you okay? You've been kind of down the last couple weeks. Something happen at your party?" _

_ Stiles replaced the cap to his water bottle. "You mean besides make out with some guy I had a class with sophomore year and then thr _ _o_ _ w up on my front porch? No, nothing happened at my party. I dunno; I guess I'm just in a funk. I blame winter time and the dwindling amount of sunshine." _

_ "That doesn't make sense." _

_ "Sure it does. It's a legitimate thing. It's called Seasonal Affective Disorder. Winter onset can be triggered by reduced sunlight." _

_ Scott shook his head, laughing. "I think you're just messing with me." _

_ "Whatever. Look it up." Stiles finished his meal in silence... _

  
_. _ .. He yawned. The latest link he'd clicked on took him to the web page for an occult bookstore in Boston. As it was only...what the hell time was it now? Oh joy, 06:02. Right, they opened at ten. He had no practice today, and he reasoned to call them after school. Feigning a school research paper might lead him to a book. If only he were that lucky.

Well, he would normally be up in less than half an hour anyway, so he decided to just get a start to his day. If he left early, maybe he could stop at Starbucks, because a Venti Almond Latte sounded like the only thing that would get him through the day today...maybe  with one or two extra shots of espresso.

When he realized he had not done laundry the night before, he smacked himself in the forehead. Damn it. That meant all his long - sleeved tees and plain colored button downs were dirty. _ Fucking, damn, shit, holy hell Batman, ugh I don't want to wear plaid. _ Left with no other options, he pulled out the darkest shirt he had, a black and dark green, buffalo checked shirt. He gathered the rest of his clothes and walked across the hall to the bathroom.

Since the day they appeared, he never looked at the markings in the mirror. The only reason he knew they were darkening in color at all was from showering. He hated them so much, wished he could burn them away. In fact, he ’d considered doing just that once or twice.

He took longer than usual under the spray, let it run hotter than he normally would to ease the aches from sitting in a computer chair since one in the morning. As he ran his hands over his scalp to rinse the shampoo from his hair, he noticed it was longer than it had ever been, even longer than the Nog...That guy was seriously a douche.

For a moment, he thought about stopping to get it cut within the next couple of days, but said 'fuck it,' because he honestly did not care. If only it didn't take so much product to make it stand up the way he liked it to. What if...he just quit doing that? Sounded like a winning plan.

He toweled off, and yawned, realizing he felt even more tired tha n before his shower. Just great.He tugged the black Spiderman tee over his head, and hold the phone ! Had his father been doing laundry again? It almost felt as though it shrank in the wash. Well wasn't that just perfect? However, as soon as he tried to button the overshirt, he ripped the seam in his shoulder. This shirt? He hadn't worn this in months, and he knew he was the one to wash it ( c overed in gore from an exploded nāga, he felt it best not to let his father see some of the stuff he did with the pack).

Quickly, he wiped off the fog from the glass and stared at himself. His shoulders were definitely broader than he remembered, more defined. His biceps looked a little thicker too, in a good way. His forearms had always looked the way they did now--that, he attributed to lacrosse. What surprised him the most were...he had abs? Since when? Okay, so he'd been spending more time in the weight room with Scott, who was trying to add a little bulk to his frame. Apparently, he was trying to go for a lacrosse scholarship, and wanted to impress the scouts. _ Um hello, Scott? You're an alpha werewolf. No worries there. _ He just never thought the work would amount to anything for him, the lowly human. It hadn't so far. Any attempt to add muscle had fallen flat. He always figured it wasn't in the cards for him.

He shrugged, must finally be paying off.

However, he was now left with the problem of having to find something to wear. Downstairs, he heard his father jingle the keys to unlock the door from the garage into the house. Before he would be faced with a difficult conversation, he hurried into his room.

Standing in his boxers, he frantically dug through his drawers for a long sleeved shirt big enough to fit him. They were all downstairs in the basket he left on the washing machine. Fuck! Then, he remembered the new Batman shirt Kira got him for his birthday. It had been way too big, and he forgot to take it back and exchange it for the next size down. A sigh of relief left his lungs as he realized it would indeed fit, even if the sleeves were a little tight around his biceps. Whatever. So long as they covered the markings on his deltoids, he didn't really give a fuck. He didn't button the new overshirt; it didn't fit either.

There was a knock on his door. "You up yet?"

"I just got out of the shower. I'm not dressed, but I'll be down to have breakfast with you in a couple minutes." His father must have been pleased with his answer, and Stiles resumed getting ready for school. Whoa...his pants had  shrunk too? He tried on another pair, and another. Okay so the weight room had been paying off all over. _ About damn time. _ He also noticed they were all a little short. Hooray for late teens growth spurts ! Sighing, he found the longest pair in his drawer and tugged them on.

Yeah, he was not in the mood to worry about his hair much today. A small dab of putty was all he needed. _ Not bad, Stiles. Wear your hair like this everyday. _ He grabbed his backpack and bounded down the stairs.

"You feeling okay?" John asked as he set an egg white omelet down on the table in front of his son, next to the glass of orange juice. "You look a little pale."

Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face. "Man, I did _ not _ sleep well at all."

"Nightmares?"

"No. Just achy." He lied.

John sat down with his own breakfast. "I understand that."

"Yeah, growing pains suck. So," Stiles said as he chewed, "I need some new clothes. I hit a growth spurt or something. Totally ripped my overshirt trying to put it on this morning. I can't even button this one. Look." He tentatively brought the button to the hole, waiting for that RRRRIP sound that didn't come. "Look at the t-shirt. It's a little too small too.

"I see that."

"I was wondering if I could have some money to go get some more today. Yes, I know, I'm an adult now, I buy my own clothes, blah, blah, blah. But you," he pointed to his dad, "don't want me to have a job. Something about focusing on my studies, and good colleges or something like that. Plus, technically, I am still a dependent, so therefore still your responsibility until I graduate or-"

John pulled out his wallet. "Here's," he counted the bills in his wallet, "a hundred. That's all you get. If you need more, you'll need to clean the garage first."

"Sounds like a winning plan. Thanks Pops."

  
  
  
  


 


	4. Things Someone Should Have Told Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> “Ten Years”- Rev Theory

Just like he did every year on this day, Stiles shuffled downstairs in his pajamas, unable to give two fucks about the outside world. For the last ten years, he'd been allowed to stay home from school (well, there were some years in there where the day fell on the weekend, but semantics). It would be pointless for him to go; it wasn't like he could concentrate on anything other than how much he missed his mom anyway.

From the pocket of his hoodie, he felt his phone vibrate. Pulling it out, he saw a text from Derek.

 

_**From: Wolverine** _

_**08:12 am** _

_**I hope you're doing okay today. If you need to talk to someone about it, I'm free all day.** _

 

He responded with a simple 'K' and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He had seen Derek only once since the man had apparently driven his drunk ass home, and that had been a disaster. The pack went out for dinner, and Stiles couldn't help but feel like things between them had grown stilted, awkward, and didn't that just fucking suck? Stiles knew then that he must have said something horribly inappropriate to him. His phone buzzed again.

 

_**From: Wolverine** _

_**08:15 am** _

_**Are** _ _**you mad** _ _**at me? Every text I've sent since the last pack night has received a one word reply. Is this about missing your birthday?** _

 

**To: Wolverine**

**08:15 am**

**No. I'm just...You're fine.**

 

Stiles wanted to stay mad at him, but he couldn't. Still, even if he'd forgiven him for something as stupid as missing a party, Stiles just couldn't shake the feeling something had driven a wedge between them. Hell, maybe it was him; it was probably him. Stiles just had a knack for fucking things up.

Comically large bowl of Cheerios in hand, he sat down on the couch to watch _ Aladdin _ . It was his and his mother's little tradition when he was younger, and...when she was still alive. Any time he was sad or had a bad day, she'd turn it on and make sure to sing "Friend Like Me" as loudly and off key as possible until he laughed. Now? He just watched it and cried.

A tiny voice, like a whisper, urged him to get up off that sofa and do something with his day. It said sitting and living in the past did no good. He didn't want to head to the cemetery until his dad came home from work, but he didn't want to wallow either. This year, he felt the need for a catharsis. The only problem with that was, he had absolutely no idea what to do to accomplish that. So, he hopped into the shower, hoping it would clear his head.

As the warm water washed over his skin, he felt antsy, worn thin. His hands ached to be busied with...something. The longer he stood under the water, the worse he felt, more sluggish. Odd. Usually, a shower rejuvenated him.

Once he was dressed, he searched the house for something, anything, to occupy his hands. They longed to create. What in the hell? He researched; he didn't 'make' things, never had the patience for it. He was a terrible artist, couldn't draw or paint to save his life. He couldn't sing, nor could he play an instrument.  Stiles was only creative when it came to devising new ways to talk himself out of trouble.

Did cooking and baking count as creating? Hell if he knew. Oh well, it was worth a shot.

A destroyed kitchen, and seven dozen cookies later, he realized that no...baking did not satisfy that new and frankly a little unnerving and insatiable desire to mold or build. What.  T he.  H ell? He took a deep breath and decided to add this new  compulsion to his list of things that had changed since _ they _ appeared all over his torso.

He tried to ignore it. That only worked for like five minutes until it had him damn near tearing apart the house looking for clay, art supplies, malleable wire- ANYTHING to shut up his hands. Nothing. Apparently, he and his dad were boring men with no creativity whatsoever. He ran his hands through his hair and shouted in frustration, accidentally kicking over the rack next to the fireplace. Logs spilled onto the floor. One, in particular chipped in such a way, that it left a small block no bigger than Stiles' hand, sitting alone on the carpet. He put the firewood back in its rightful place and stared at the scrap of wood, unable to look away, almost as if it were calling to him, saying 'Try me.'

When he cleaned the garage to earn money for new clothes, he remembered seeing a small chisel and pocket sized utility knife; he just couldn't remember where. A fifteen minute search later, he held the two tools in his hand and sat down at the kitchen table. With no template or reference picture, he just started chipping away wood from the block, whittling it away until slowly but surely, a shape took form.

As he ran his fingers over the finished piece, a giraffe, a warmth built in his fingertip, a warmth like a building flame. He wasn't sure what possessed him to do it, but he dragged his index finger over the edges and areas he wanted shading, watching with amazement as the wood darkened beneath his touch as though his finger were a laser. Unsatisfied with just basic shading and line work, he added spots, darkened the animal's eyes. When he finished, he just stared at it and his fingers. They didn't feel hot to the touch, but how would he be able to tell? From the silverware drawer, he plucked one of their cheaper spoons and touched his finger to it, finding relief that it did not bed or melt beneath his touch. Then, just for fun, he tried again, warping the piece of flatware into an unusable mess.

How...did he know how to do this?

But more importantly, he wanted to know what the hell was happening to him. He wanted, no-- needed some answers.

  
  
  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Two weeks had passed since Stiles discovered his new skill, and true to his nature (or hell, maybe it was new and improved thanks to his Magical Mystery Markings) he'd taken things slow. And by slow, he meant he had become completely obsessed. He'd made so many little carvings, he was running out of places to hide them.

At first, he'd stowed them in empty shoe boxes under his bed. That worked for all of two days, until he ran out of boxes. Then, he stored them in the bottom of a dresser drawer, buried underneath his pants. For fun, and because of the mischievous sort of guy he was, he scattered them around the house just to see if his dad would notice ( h e hadn't).

From their woodpile, which frankly, they hardly used, he'd split logs into many pieces each ,  of varying size and widths to allow for variety in his sculptures. He'd gone to the hobby store in town and bought a set of carving tools, and whoa, big mistake, because his pieces only grew more elaborate. That would have been fine if it slowed him down any, but it didn't. Given the speed at which they worked, it was as though his hands were possessed by the Flash or the Devil.  _ Oh please d _ _on’t let it be the Devil. That would just the icing on this fucking cake that is my life._ His house was starting to look like the ark. Wooden animal figurines were everywhere.

He hadn't slept in three days, but wasn't tired at all. His mind was still as sharp as ever; his body felt rested. Though he did not feel fatigue, he was growing afraid of this new development. Even if he wasn't tired, sleeping felt nice. Shutting off his brain for hours on end kept him from doing...well this.

Thankful his father had the night shift again, and of course, being wide awake, he climbed the rickety stairs to the attic. He needed a new adventure, and to be honest, little was open at two in the morning. Within a few minutes though, he realized his mistake. His mother's things were everywhere, and he felt the nostalgia choking him.

_ No, Stiles. You can do this. You need a break from the whittling. _

With care, he minded his footing as he walked along the beams. How could he not know they'd kept so many of her things? He pulled up a bag of old clothes and plopped down on it as though it were a bean bag chair. A photo album sat nearby, within reach.

Leafing through the pages, he couldn't help but feel a little sad. His mother's smiling face filled these pictures, pictures he'd long forgotten. He couldn't remember the last time he looked at his baby pictures. And wow, was his hair really that long as a toddler? Absentmindedly, he ran his hands through his hair. The more he flipped, the more he noticed that he only seemed to cut it short once school started. By the time she got really sick, he was cropping it to the buzzcut he wore for so long.

_ I should grow it back out. Time for a change, for myself. _

Laughing, he shook off that thought. He tapped his lips in thought. "Too bad my hair grows so slowly. Would be nice though, if it grew a little faster." He set the album aside and continued digging through the box. Buried at the bottom was a worn leather book.

His mother had kept a journal? Huh.

Curiosity got the better of him, and he opened it. As he read, it was like seeing her for the first time in forever. He could even hear her voice in his head, reading the words to him. It seemed, she started the journal in college. He didn't know she'd studied in Greece, let alone spoke Greek. Had he really known her at all? What he wouldn't give to just have a conversation with her now. There were so  many things he'd like to know, things that as an eight year old, he wasn't ready to hear.

 

_ I met a man in the street today. He'd been knocked down in heavy foot traffic. He seemed much younger than he was, because he was stronger than an old man should be, and even looked younger, but his eyes. His eyes seemed so old, so many years behind them. I helped him up and out of the way. He thanked me, but then warned me about the dangers of wishes three. _

_ It seemed odd, given I had said nothing to bring that up other than ask him if he was okay or if he needed help. What was I supposed to say back to that? 'Be careful of your wishes three, what sounds ideal may cease to be. What’s nice for you is more fun for me _ _._ _ '  _ _O_ _ r what?  _ _You’ll hunt me down?_ _ I understand the wishing for more than you have, but... I don't know. It was very strange _

  
Like that bit right there-- he'd love to have talked to her about that day or any of her time in Greece. Why \- h e scrubbed his hands over his face. His mother would always listen to him, with his fantastic and whimsical stories, the enthusiasm he had for things he learned. He and his dad, just never had that, and he doubted they ever would. Not when his dad refused to believe a single thing he said. Stiles didn't blame him though. He knew all the lies he told around the time Scott was bitten until, well until the Darach, would cost him. Turns out, they cost him a relationship with the only parent he had left. They spoke, but never really said anything- even less since the Nogitsune. What would she have thought about all that, about his tattoos? Would she have known why they showed up in the first place?

He continued reading.

 

_ The migraines have become unbearable. I spend so much time in bed, it's been hard to hold a job. I just want to feel better. I wish I could feel better. _

 

To his surprise, a few entries later, his mother raved about how the headaches had stopped just like that, and she hadn't needed to see a doctor. Maybe those migraines were the beginning of her illness. Who would ever know now?

He hadn't even known his parents had been told they couldn't have children. See, all these things, were things he should know. He had to know, had to know everything. It was his nature to seek out facts and knowledge. If he'd known any of this, known how much his mother had longed for a child, well he would have adored her more than he already did. He'd have been better for his dad. But nothing. He'd been left in the dark left to his own devices. And...hold it- His father had been shot in the line of duty? He gritted his teeth

Why.  D id.  N o.  O ne.  T ell.  Hi m.  A nything?

 

_ I just want John to be safe. I can't imagine trying to raise little Maciej alone. We both need him. I want him to always be safe at work. _

  
Well, he guessed being Sheriff made him a little safer. Less time on the streets meant l ess likely to be involved in an altercation. Unless, of course, werewolves, kanimas,darachs, and Oni came knocking on your office door. Stiles would almost rather his father had never become Sheriff. He might have been around more after his mother died, might have felt less lost. Hell, he still felt lost.

Slowly, a thought began to take root in the back of his mind, one he couldn't put his finger on, just that everything he'd just read felt strange to him, like there was a message he was missing.

Frustrated, he went back downstairs and climbed into bed, forcing himself to fall asleep. Sleep- well it was restless at best, his body too full of energy, too alive. Alive like the forest or a flame. He tossed and turned for what felt like hours until his overactive mind jolted him awake.

That idea, inkling, that hunch from the attic had finally come to the forefront of his mind. The migraines, gone, only to be replaced by dementia. His father had been shot, but promoted and taken out of the field, and now Stiles rarely saw him. His parents had fertility issues, struggled for years to have him, and wham surprise! Here's a Stiles, your bouncing baby boy. Some miracle kid he turned out to be. Mouthy, restless, hyper, got possessed, and now covered in magical tattoos that appeared out of nowhere overnight. That same child whose hands needed to be occupied now, every second possible, just to stay sane.

Strike one, strike two, strike...three.

He bolted upright in bed and hopped on the computer. There were things he needed to research immediately, and it didn't take long after entering one word into the search engine for everything that had changed for him recently to make sense.

Holy shit. They were real. Wishes always backfired, and apparently for him that meant he was not the fragile human he had thought he was since Peter bit Scott that night in the wolves.

Everything he had read pointed to one explanation: djinni. No fucking way.

  
  


 


	5. Obsessive Research, Ebay, and a Late Night Walk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing;  
> “I Want You to Want Me”- Chase Holfelder

Stiles threw himself into research. Okay, if he was djinni, that couldn't be so bad, could it? Well, only needing to sleep an hour or two a night freed up a lot of research time. So hiding his new mission was easy from the pack. Oh god-- The pack, what would they do when they found out? Would they shun him? Probably. Hell, they'd probably think it was the Nogitsune all over again. He doubted they'd try to save him this time.

Why? Well for one, the more Stiles read about the djinn, the more they scared the shit out of him. There were five types: the djann, djinn, afārīt, shayateen, and marida who were the most powerful. Other sources he read mentioned the ghul alongside the djinn, but given their description, he didn't think he fell into that category. He had no desire to devolve into cannibalism or eat corpses.

E verything he read said the djinn could be benevolent or evil, the qualities associated with being an ifrit or a shaitan ; he didn't want to be an enormous winged, fire being bent on rebellion and evil deeds, or a demon, something akin to the devil. The marida didn't sound so bad, other than being super powerful, large, arrogant and proud, but Stiles didn't think he'd be lucky as to get to be an all-powerful marid djinni.

So that left him as a djanni or djinni. They  seemed okay.  He could be open-minded about humans, hell for the first eighteen years of his life, he thought he was one ( w ell aside from that brief stint as a fox demon, but who ’s counting ). He quite liked the idea that he might have the ability to reveal an oasis in the desert if he so chose. He didn't mind his new-found skills as a craftsman . T he wood sculptures had progressed to metal and stone now. He'd started selling them on EBay just to get the damn things out of his house. He ’d made three hundred dollars so far.

Made of smokeless and scorching fire, the djinn could shapeshift, could be whatever they wanted, animal, human, or just exist as air. Yeah, that was another thing that confused him: Beacon Hills was not a desert. If the djinn were made from fire, what the hell was he going to do in Northern California ? There were trees everywhere.

He didn't feel like he was being extinguished every time he bathed; how could he be made of fire? Still, he felt lethargic post-shower, like he was in danger of floating away like smoke on the wind. Maybe it was tied to how long he spent in the water. Just to be safe, he'd continue to not be part of the swim team.

His brain fried, but body buzzing with energy, he stepped away from the computer and promptly tripped. Then, Stiles looked around his room. Books lay everywhere; printouts he hadn't even remembered printing were strewn about, interspersed with the volumes from not one, not two, but seven different libraries. He scrubbed his hands over his face, carefully and quietly picking up the mess to stow under his bed, where space was quickly dwindling. He sighed. This was his life now, furtive research and hiding everything new about him from the world, a fact made painfully obvious given that his father lay sleeping two rooms over. It was three in the morning; he should be sleeping too, but nope, he already did that from ten to midnight.

But did he have to hide everything? He figured his recent change in appearance, the added height and subtle increase in strength had to be attributed to his djinni powers. If he could shapeshift, what was stopping him from making a few more improvements?

The more he thought about it though, the less he knew what he'd change. It sure would be nice never to have to worry about a sunburn again. Then again, as a magical fire being or whatever, he probably didn't have to worry about it. Though he hated his moles and complexion as a kid, he found he  liked them now, even with his skin as pale as it was. He took a quick look in the mirror, finally noticing that his hair seemed to be growing fast... wait, he'd actually said he'd like it if it grew a little faster out loud in the attic. So, add that to the list of new changes. It looked good, he thought, and he didn't remember his hair being this wavy, but then again, he'd kept it short for so long, maybe it just needed to be a little longer. Soon, he'd be able to pull it back into a hair tie, and he'd be a paler, less scruffy looking, and certainly taller Will Turner.  _ Swashbucklers, here I come. _

Maybe just a more attractive version of himself. He drummed his fingers against his mouth and concentrated on an image in his mind, subtle changes. Yeah, just enough to catch the eye of someone, but not enough that the pack noticed.

_ Think Stiles...think, think, think hard. _

Ugh, he was restless. What the hell was he supposed to do for another three hours without alerting his dad? He cast a gaze at the window. A walk would probably do it.

Changing into a pair of sweatpants and long sleeved t-shirt, he pulled on his sneakers, and quietly, ever so quietly, shimmied open his bedroom window. Taking one last look both behind him and the area around his house as he balanced on the roof while he shut the window, he hopped down to the ground.

  
  
  


*** * ***

  
The brisk night air should have nipped at Stiles' skin, chilled him to the bone. It didn't. The cold only served as a minor nuisance really, biting a little at his cheeks. Time was, Stiles would have been bundled up, coat, gloves and hat in temperatures like the ones tonight.

What he'd intended to simply be a little walk around his neighborhood, had long turned into aimless wandering around Beacon Hills. As he ambled, he tried to make sense of everything and file the abilities and limitations that came with being, well, what he was, into his mental flash drive. It seemed with every day, something else revealed itself, like a  pop-up ad or error message.

Though there were some perks, all of them seemed to be superficial, cosmetic even. He could have lived with being 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones. Somewhere out there, he was perfect for someone just as he was before his birthday. The downsides he'd found so far, outweighed any good that came with this 'gift.' He was loath to even call it that.

Somehow, his feet had carried him to the warehouse district, carried him on their own accord, because his brain sure as hell wasn't in charge. What in the hell had he said to Derek while he was drunk? Whatever it was, it had to quash any potential they had. Stiles rubbed at his chest as though it would take away the sting of not only being alone but of unrequited love.

Regardless, he found himself in front of Derek's building, staring up at a darkened window wondering if the man ever thought of him the way he did this time of night, when his mind just wouldn't let him sleep. Part of him hoped Derek did, hoped he was up there right now, wide awake, but he knew better. The longer he loitered outside, the more the likelihood of someone calling the cops on him increased. There had to be a night security guard making his rounds in one of the adjacent buildings.

It was pathetic to hope; he knew that. He just wanted to be the last thing someone,  _ anyone _ thought about before falling asleep at night, thoughts of affection instead of worry. Shame on him, shame on Stiles for having the kind of heart that fell for people it couldn't have. He'd been right that night in the preserve when he'd told Scott that as much as being broken up hurt, being alone was worse- way worse.

Oh well. It seemed that he'd have quite the long lifespan to worry about being alone, and wasn't that just a depressing fact.

  
  


*** * ***

  
Derek stared up at his ceiling, jarred awake an hour ago by a hellish nightmare, one he'd had many times and often. As usual, it had felt so real, he could still feel Boyd's blood on his claws when he woke. On nights like this, he never could fall back asleep.

The loft, he found was far too quiet at night. He could hear everything, the whirring machinery anywhere in the building, the ventilation unit turning on in the basement, could hear his fridge, the hum of his laptop charging on the table. Outside, a cat meowed nearby. A block away or so, a car drove past. He could hear his own steady heartbeat, and...wait a minute.

The sound of an alert heart, beating slightly too fast in its owner's chest, caught his attention. Why would he be here? At this hour? Derek hurried out of bed and to the door, ready to turn the alarm off right away if need be, a need which didn't arise. When he opened the door, he found no one. A quick glance out the window revealed nothing but an empty street.

_ Get a grip, Derek. Just call him. _

He shook his head at the thought. Stiles had pushed him away, and he couldn't figure out why. He'd sent messages, tried calling, would have stopped by if the last pack night hadn't been so painful for him. Just knowing that Stiles thought Derek hated him, barely tolerated him, hurt, but hearing the way the poor guy was torn up because someone he had feelings for, and strong ones it seemed, rejected him at his party, hurt worse. Why couldn't Stiles see all the good he had to offer, that he didn't need to look like a supermodel or a superhero to be attractive to someone?

_ Call him. Text him. Do something. Tell him you were thinking of him. Tell him it's killing you not to be with him, that you'd give anything for him to be here with you now. _

From his nightstand, Derek picked up his phone, and it weighed two tons in his hand.

  
_**To: Stiles** _

_**03:58 am** _

_**I miss talking to you.** _

  
His fingers hovered over the send button for almost five minutes, before he chickened out and changed his message.

 

_**To: Stiles** _

_**04:04 am** _

_**Are you doing okay? I haven't talked to you in a while. I just...I'm worried about you. You can talk to me about anything. You know that right?** _

  
That was no good either. He hit the backspace and deleted his words.

 

_**To: Stiles** _

_**04:05 am** _

_**I thought I heard you outside, but I imagined it I guess** _ **.** _**I wish you had been.** _

 

No matter how much he tried, he couldn't press send. He wanted to, god how he wanted to, but he just...couldn't. Instead, he filed it away in his drafts folder along with the other countless messages he was too much of a coward to ever send. Most of them said the same thing:

_ I love you. _

 


	6. The Filling in a Two Hot Stranger Sandwich

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> Scene 1: “Mobscene”- Marilyn Manson  
> Scene 2: “How to Be a Heartbreaker (Dubstep Remix)”- Marina and the Diamonds  
> Scene 3: “3 Libras”- A Perfect Circle

Stiles climbed out of the Jeep from where he'd parked in front of Mad Hatter, the new eighteen and over club in nearby Chico. Lydia had used her skills (Read: Strong will and Iron Fist) to convince Scott that there needed to be a pack outing to the place now that all of them were eighteen as of last week. Stiles fought the urge to groan. He liked dancing, had fun doing it, but for some reason he always felt out of place in clubs.

However, tonight, he felt...strangely good, up for anything. A familiar itch beneath his skins bristled all over his body. Since his Djinni Heraldry, as he'd taken to calling it, first appeared, he'd begun to associate this feeling with new attributes coming to the surface. Slowly but surely the changes had gone from upsetting, to unpleasant, to ones he found more palatable.

The long awaited arrival of some semblance of muscle had been like an answered prayer, not that anyone got to see it ( d amn those stupid tattoos). Hell, he'd even welcomed the growth spurt. Taller than Scott since eighth grade, the fact he'd grown a few inches since his birthday in November had gone unnoticed. Of the pack, only Derek had been taller than him after Isaac ran off to Europe and Boyd...poor Boyd. Though, now that Isaac had decided to come back for the final semester of high school, Stiles had been slouching a little.

Since that awkward night at the diner with the whole pack, Stiles had not seen Derek, which pissed him off to be frank. His only contact had been text messages that just didn't do it for him. They seemed to be an attempt to placate him, maybe to assuage Derek's guilt at standing him up. Whatever it was, the words felt hollow as he read them.

The man had driven him home, taken care of him in his drunken state and practically avoided everyone since. Even Scott had only seen him twice. Fine, Stiles could take the hint. He'd been taking the hint for years.

So yeah, he was stronger and taller now, but those had not been the perks of Djinni...hood Stiles had been most impressed with. One, he had confidence for once, actual confidence in himself for something other than his brain. One morning last week, he woke up, and it was like he'd finally become aware of his body and the space it occupied in the universe. The subdermal prickling which accompanied _ that _ change had been delicious, seductive almost, and definitely euphoric. Under the privacy of an empty house, he experimented with the way he moved and found that trademark flailing his ADHD had given him had vanished.

Now, he decided to welcome that tingle every chance he got. Of course, the highlight of everything so far had been the change to his mind. He hadn't taken an Adderall in almost a month, and he hadn't missed it. In fact, his brain, for the first time in what seemed like forever, well what for him actually _ was _ forever, felt sharper as though he were seeing everything in slower motion; he could actually focus. He reasoned, that it was how everyone else felt most of the time. He supposed this was what normal felt like, well...part of normal.

Long story short, this Djinni thing might have, quite possibly, been growing on him.

"Do you see anyone else?" Scott asked, pulling his mom's car to a stop, Kira and Isaac both climbed out and stood next to the Jeep.

"No. I just got here. Waiting for all of you. I could have given the three of you a ride you know, and I promise I would not have left you behind like you did at my party."

Scott rolled his eyes. "I have apologized for that like five times already." He took in his best friend's appearance. "What _ are _ you wearing?"

Stiles looked down at himself. "They're called clothes, Scott."

"Yeah, but all of them fit. Is this part of the whole ' Re invent Stiles ’ project you have going on?"

"What project?" Isaac asked. So school had only been back in session a week, and Stiles had seen him all of three times.

"Scott, I needed new clothes and decided it was time for a change. Don't rain on my parade, Man. I thought I looked nice." To be fair, he'd sought out the dark red button down on purpose. When he bought it the week before, he liked the way it fit. No longer did he want to hide behind a ridiculous amount of layers ( s ee: new-found Djinni confidence above), and he was reluctant to join the Supernatural Henley Club. Honestly, what was it with all the Henleys? The double pockets made the shirt look more casual. He'd even left the top couple of buttons open unlike usual. Luckily, the collar of his black undershirt concealed any bit of tattoo that might show.

  
  


  
  


"Well yeah, but..." Scott couldn't put his finger on it, but Stiles just seemed off. The guy had been different since his birthday, and any time Scott pressed for information, he was met with the canned response of 'I felt it was time for a change.' What? Was eighteen some kind of magic number, an expiration date on wearing plaid?

Now, Stiles had bought a leather moto jacket, wore pants that didn't come in a rainbow of colors, donned shoes _ other _ than that same pair of Chucks everyday. Hell, Stiles hadn't actually done his hair in a month. Now it just hung in a devil may care kind of way. "Dude, are you wearing eyeliner?" Taking a good long look at his best friend, Scott couldn't put his finger on it and wouldn't be able to explain it if someone asked, but he just looked...better, and why did that scare  the shit out of him ?

"Little bit, yeah." Stiles shrugged. "I figured it couldn't hurt. It's a night club, Scott, and I've brought my A game tonight."

"What game? Stiles, you and I, we don't have game. I've seen your game. I love you man, but you have no game."

Stiles gave a playful jab to Scott's sternum. "Scott, Scott, Scotty, Scott. I have a feeling I might just surprise you." He clapped his best friend on the back. "So who all are we waiting for?"

Scott stared at him, wondering if they'd missed another possession like the Nogitsune, because this Stiles, the one in front of him had changed way too fast. He certainly didn't smell any different, if anything that chemical smell of medication had...disappeared. "Dude, did you take your Adderall today?"

"What business is that of yours? You worry about your Alphadom and leave being Stiles to me."

Kira, no longer content to watch the interaction, finally answered Stiles' question. "Lydia and Malia are on the way. Derek even promised to come. He said Cora is back in California for college. Apparently she goes to UCLA or something. Cora is his sister right? I never met her."

Stiles cackled. "He's good at that, promising to show up to things and just...not."

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're not still mad about that are you?"

"Oh absolutely, Scotty, my man. Because aside from failing to attend that party, when I'd finally worked up the courage to declare my undying love for the man, raging hard on, what have you, and showing up just in time to drive my drunk ass home, I have seen him once since then. Once. He's missed the pack nights, which in case you have forgotten, are held at _ his _ house. He bailed on the Christmas party! I made him a present!" He threw up his arms in frustration. "Have you considered the possibility I dressed like this to make the man jealous? Ah, speak of the asshole now."

  
  


  
  


Derek parked his SUV and climbed out, Cora in tow. Lydia, who'd graciously agreed to pick up Malia, pulled into the space next to him. Derek took one look at Stiles, sizing him up as quickly as possible, and cast a subtle glance to Scott. Before him, was definitely _ not _ the same kid whom he ’d dr i ven home a month before, the same kid who drunkenly tore himself to shreds as he wallowed in self-pity. Hell, he wasn't the awkward and stilted guy he sat across from at the diner either.. Stiles looked...hot, not that Derek didn't find him attractive before. Now he just...wait a minute. Since when was Stiles taller than him?

"Oh my God, you actually came." Stiles sarcasm was biting. "I guess I should just let someone else invite you to things from now on. Seems you take invitations more seriously if they don't come from me." Stiles turned and walked towards the already long line into the club.

"We are going to be out here forever." Malia whined. "I can't believe I let you talk me into heels, Lydia. How do you wear these things every day?"

Scott turned around to address the rest of the group aside from Stiles, who stood in front of him. "I don't know if we're even going to get in. Sounds pretty packed in there already."

When Derek stepped out of his car, he'd seen the way the shirt hugged the guy's body, and never  had he imagined that Stiles had been hiding a toned, strong body underneath all those layers. He didn't understand it. Why did Stiles feel like the ugly duckling of the group, when he was anything but?

From his place in line at the back of the pack, Derek couldn't take his eyes off Stiles. The way he was dressed, the way he carried himself seemed different, and Derek found himself in a constant struggle to keep his feelings for the guy inside. Per the norm, Derek kept his mouth shut but couldn't  look away . How had he failed to notice him?  Stiles just looked beautiful, eyes clearer, skin brighter, any imperfections looked smoother. And yeah, he'd spent quite a while staring at the guy before. Part of him wondered if those bourbon colored eyes would look different in the light. Another part of Derek wondered if maybe, that someone who'd rebuffed his affections at his party finally reciprocated, and _ that _ was why he looked so good. Still, a large part of him shuddered to think, that Stiles wasn't actually...Stiles anymore, that there might be something more sinister in play.

"I just want to dance! This line needs to seriously hurry the hell up."

 

 

 

Stiles shook his head; Malia could be really impatient sometimes, just like he could. They'd been in line for almost twenty minutes and hadn't moved. He crossed his left arm across his chest to cup his elbow as, deep in thought, he scratched his chin. _ It would be awesome if most of the people in front of us were turned away. That would be great. _ Absentmindedly, he tapped his index and middle fingers against his lips, and found, within moments the line began to move. _ Oh ho _ \- he thought, his eyebrows rising in surprise.

One by one, most of the people in front of them were turned away, with only a few allowed into the club.

"Great. They're past capacity or something." Kira said. "I don't know if we're getting in tonight."

Finally, they made it to the bouncer, and Stiles couldn't help but play with his mouth. It had been a habit before his birthday, and now he had a little suspicion to prove to himself. "Fine job you're doing tonight. Full house in there?"

"Not yet. ID's?"

Stiles collected them from the rest of the pack. "I'm sure you'll find all them satisfactory," he said, tapping his lips. He could hardly contain his glee when the bouncer slapped an over twenty-one  wristband on his arm. "Blue, nice. My favorite color." He winked when the guy waved them all in. "Thank you. Keep up the great work. Fine establishment you're running." When the rest of the pack joined him inside after checking their coats, he patted Scott's shoulder. "Scotty, my man. Tonight is going to be awesome. Just you wait. I can feel it under my skin." _ Fuck, how I can feel it under my skin. _ He cast a glance to the rest of the group and headed to the dance floor, leaving them all where they stood.

 

 

*** * ***

  
  


The throng of people in the middle of the club had practically swallowed Stiles whole, the music vibrating through his chest in a hypnotic tribal beat. The laser projectors sent a mesmerizing display of lights around the room, drawing him in further. The atmosphere felt sexy, seductive even, and had him totally engrossed.

Derek who? Right now, Stiles did not care one bit that the man sat at the bar, and had been all night, looking like someone kicked his puppy. Hell, even Cora was dancing.

The woman he had been dancing with for almost half an hour left with her friends, and for a moment, he thought about finding the pack, then decided against it when he noticed a particularly attractive group of people. If he had to guess, he'd say they were all college kids. Yeah, forget the pack. He pushed through a mass of people and made his way over to them, with two people especially catching his eye. Time to put that new confidence to the test.

The pulse of the bass made the floor shake, giving him courage, and when he started dancing adjacent to them, he braced himself for a cold shoulder that did not come. Look, he'd seen himself dance before; it was...in one word, awkward, in two words not good. But with this bodily awareness he'd gained, he just seemed to know how to move, how to feel the music in a way he never had before. Flames always looked as though they were dancing in a fire; the smoke, as it drifted skyward, did the same. He supposed djinn were alike in that way. _ You are smoke, Stiles; you are fire. _ The fog machines in the had him believing he could be both.

He expected to just dance along the periphery. He did not, however, think he'd be pulled into the group let alone have someone grinding against his crotch, and hello, his ass too. Did djinn just have an aura that drew people in, something mysterious about them that humans couldn't resist? Wow, that just shows how much his life had changed in two months that he no longer referred to himself as human. What even was his life?

The girl danced in front of him with wild abandon. Her hips undulated in perfect time to the music, drawing delicious circles against his body. Unsure of where to put his hands, he had been keeping them down at his sides. He was not a groper, okay? But the more she moved, the more his arms (and hands more importantly) needed something to do. To his surprise, however, she grabbed his wrists and put his hands on her hips. It was at that moment, Stiles felt the need to have a silent conversation with his dick. _ Listen, don't get any ideas. Don't go doing your thing, okay? You stay right where you are. _

A hand splayed flat against his stomach, quite low on his stomach for that matter, and tugged him backwards, dragging the girl along with him. Bodies pressed up against him; it was a two fronted...well not assault, because he fucking loved it. What was the word...oh forget the word. _ Stop thinking, Stiles. Just go wi- _ His internal pep talk was cut short by a pair of lips brushing the shell of his ear.

"Is this okay?"

He nodded. "More than okay," he panted as the guy behind him began mouthing at his neck, occasionally kissing at his ear. Yeah, so totally on board with it. When he felt a little nip at the crook of his neck, his dick no longer felt like cooperating. Stiles' head felt like lead, and he let it lull back at rest on the guy's shoulder as he freed a hand from the sinful hips in front of him so he could wrap it around the guy's neck while they danced...made out? It sure seemed like it was heading that way.

Then, as if she'd read his mind, his other dance partner spun in his grasp to face him; he didn't even have a chance to move his hand in time, and it definitely slid south when she turned. Quickly, he moved it back to her hips, only to receive a smirk and a small eyebrow waggle from her...and now his hand was on her ass again. Shortly, thereafter, she wrapped an arm around his neck, and the other around his waist. To be more accurate though, she rested her elbow at his hip and reached for the guy behind him.

Was he imagining this? He had to be. In no world, was he, human or not, attractive, or alluring enough to draw the attention of two people at once. Now he was the filling in a 'Stiles and two hot strangers sandwich. '

Warm and soft lips, slightly sticky from lip gloss, captured his, and his mind went completely blank. His body almost felt numb to everything else besides the  kisses  at the back of his neck and the pair of lips on his mouth, everything that is, except for a buzzing of energy beneath his skin. Oh fuck, he was so on board with this.

He didn't know what made him do it, but he cast his eyes to the bar, and make no mistake, he stared in Derek's direction. Eye contact was key, after all, and Stiles knew his gaze probably conveyed a 'See what you could be having, if you hadn't ignored me' air.  He wanted it too, wanted to make Derek jealous, to get him up off that damn bar stool and over here. He was the one Stiles really wanted. Just to drive another nail in the proverbial coffin, he broke the kiss and gasped as though he was oxygen starved ( h e wasn't), letting his mouth hang open far longer than he needed to.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Across the club, Derek coughed into his glass, choking on his drink. Watching what he equated to porn on the dance floor was doing a real number on him. It also made him a little angry. Jealous of course, that someone else, _anyone_ else had Stiles' attention. The anger that rose like bile in his throat, probably stemmed from that. The whole fucking reason he'd kept his distance from Stiles ( aside from the additional distance Stiles, himself, had put between them) in the first place was because the guy told him he was in love with someone else. Albeit, he'd said so when plastered, but he'd said it nonetheless.

Now here he was all over strangers!

Derek seethed with barely tempered rage and a whole lot of jealousy. Mostly though, he was mad at himself.

"Put that away." Cora coughed.

"What?"

"It's like you bathed in Eau de Rage, Derek. Calm yourself before you Hulk out. What has your panties in a twist?"

He'd never told anyone else how he felt about Stiles. As a born wolf, he learned early on how to hide emotions he wished to keep secret. He'd done well on this front; at least he thought he had. Before he had a chance to answer, Scott came walking over.

"Look at him! What the hell is up with Stiles?" Scott pointed in his best friend's direction.

"Looks like he's having a good time." Cora snickered as she took another sip from her soda.

"I see that. But this is Stiles we're talking about Cora. I've seen him dance dozens of times. He looks like an uncoordinated baboon when he does. I've also seen him try and hit on people, and never once has he pulled off anything remotely close to _ that _ !" He pointed once more. "He has game!"

"So?"

"Cora, Stiles and I have no game. How I  managed to ever get a girlfriend is beyond me. This is the same kid it took being possessed by a demonic fox to lose his virginity...in the basement of a mental institution."

Derek gritted his teeth. He'd never known that, and it made him want to start throwing punches. That was not how a first time was sup- Oh listen to him wax poetic about first times, when he knew better than anyone the kind of damage that could be done. Had the Nogitsune  made Stiles do it? Was he medicated and not in the right frame of mind? Of course he wasn't; Derek knew that. Deaton had drugged him with lichen to suppress the fox, but the thing was still there.

He swore if something else had taken over Stiles' mind, no punches were being pulled this time.  Derek couldn't watch that again. The aftermath of the Nogitsune had been a horrible thing to witness, the way Stiles drew in on himself, the guilt Derek could smell on him constantly. Heh, at least  _ he _ , unlike Derek, had found a way to move past that. Good for him.

He sighed, looking up in time to see Stiles heading towards the bathrooms, both people he'd been dancing with in tow. With one hand, Derek rubbed his temples, using the cover it gave him to hide his eyes, glowing blue with hurt.

"So possessed, right? Clearly, he has to be, and we missed it." Scott plopped down onto the stool next to him.

Derek took a drink. "My money's on an encounter with a succubus, hell in Stiles' case could be an incubus too."

"He's one of them?"

"No, you can't be turned into one of them. Just under their spell. To be one of them, he'd have to be born into it as a product of a human incubus affair. If that were the case, he'd be a cambion. Now I don't know about you, but are you willing to suggest that his mom got knocked up by a mythical sex demon?"

Scott winced. "Good point. Wait.  W hy do I have to ask?"

Derek smirked. "You're the alpha. It's your problem." Scott sat nervously next to him waiting for Stiles to reemerge from the bathroom.

Finally, Stiles walked over to the bar, where the overwhelming smell of arousal and...latex hit Derek like a train. He turned away and closed his eyes, clamping a hand tightly over his mouth to tamp down the hurt and nausea. When he opened them, he found his sister staring at him with that look all the Hale women had. Oh God, she knew. Fuck if this night couldn't get any worse. Cora softened her expression as if to say 'We'll talk about this later,' and he simply gave her a shake of his head no. Emotions in check, he spun on his stool in time to see Stiles clamp a hand down on Scott's shoulder.

"Scotty, how's your night treating you?"

"Okay I guess."

"My night is-"

"Dude, you reek." Cora cut right through the chit chat. "Bathroom sex? Really, Stiles?"

He shrugged. "It was fun. Why should the where matter?"

Derek looked down at his drink, swallowing hard and biting his tongue.

  
  


  
  


  
  


"So um, Stiles. We were curious about your new dancing skills and powers of seduction."

Stiles quirked an intrigued eyebrow at him. "And?"

"Have you by any chance had a run in with a succubus?" Scott blinked and shook his head as though h e couldn't even believe he just asked that question. _ Damn it, Peter. You started this whole mess. We were blissfully unaware of all this crap before you bit me. _

Stiles leaned against the bar; an impish gleam appeared in his eye. "You mean, did I have a fling with one?" He drew his index finger up Scott's arm. "Now that you mention it. That guy at my party, the one who gave me a hickey. Maybe that was his bite." He straightened his posture and leaned into Scott's space, brushing a thumb against his cheek. "That must be it, because I gotta say, you have just about the prettiest brown eyes I've ever seen. What do you say we get out of here? Bring Kira along too. It'll be fun for all of us."

"Are you serious?"

"No. Jesus fucking Christ, Scott. I am not an incubus or under the spell of one. I just finally found self-confidence."

"And that calls for a threesome in a bathroom?" Once again, Scott could not believe the question he just asked.

"Technically, it was a twosome and third party oral sex. Fuck, I need a drink."

"How. I've seen your fake.  It never works."

 

  
  


Stiles held up his arm and showed his wristband. "Look at me. Derek and I match. Seemed it worked this time." Then, he turned his attention to the bartender. Elbow on the bar, he propped his chin up on his hand and ran his pinky back and forth across his bottom lip. When he approached, Stiles gave him a long look-over.

"What can I get for you?"

Just to be safe, he plucked his pinky from between his teeth and tapped said digit and his ring finger against his lips. "Can I get a Devil's Cut on the rocks please?"

The bartender stared at him in a way that seemed to mean the man was undressing him with his eyes. "Sure thing." When Stiles tried to pay for his drink, the man waved him off. "It's on me. Can I get you anything else?"

"Yeah. How 'bout your number?" Stiles winked, and felt giddy when his request worked.

Standing next to him, Scott just stared at  his best friend ; his eyebrows raised as though they were trying to escape off the top of his forehead. 

  
  


  
  


  
  


Derek, however, had been watching the whole exchange, about to explode. When he watched Stiles' phone return to him, his glass cracked in his hands. Cora, unfortunately heard the slight crunch, and tugged on his wrist to keep him from shattering it in between his hands. "Come on, Derek. We are going dancing." She dragged him away from the bar.

"Cora, I don't want to dance."

"Me neither." She pulled him across the club and to the door that led to the smoker's patio.

 

*** * ***

  
  


Though all the chairs on the patio were occupied, Cora found empty space on a brick planter near the fence. She patted the spot next to her, and Derek, though unwilling at first, eventually sat down. "So...that was..."

He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Just ask, Cora."

"You and Stiles?" She arched an eyebrow at him.

"What about it? Nothing happened."

"Yeah, but you want it to. Don't you?" She looked over to see him close his eyes and give a subtle nod. "Like how bad we talking? Bone him once to get it out of your system, or..."

He opened the drafts folder in his phone's text messaging app and handed the phone to her, remaining silent as she read.

"This is... Wow, Derek. Why haven't you said anything to him?"

“Because I’m a coward.”  Elbows on his knees, he rested his chin atop his clasped hands, eyes fixed at some undetermined point on the ground. "I was going to. At his party, but I was late because I was nervous, and by the time I got there, he'd left. I drove right past him on the way out. He was trashed, Cora, just sitting on the curb. So I stopped and gave him a ride home, and the whole way there, he just kept talking. But I can't say anything to him about what he said, because that would be holding his drunken words against him."

"Which were?"

"About how he'd been rejected that night by someone he--how do I say, 'Stiles, I'm desperately in love with you,' when he'd just told me he was in love with someone else?"

Cora cringed. "Yikes. That all?"

"No, he was tearing himself to shreds about how pathetic he was and how he felt compared to the rest of the pack. Do you have any idea how hard it was to hear someone I thought was perfect exactly the way he was say how much he hated himself?"

She rested her head on his shoulder. "Had no idea you were into guys, Der."

He shook his head. "I'm not, or I mean, I didn't think I was. Stiles was,  _ is _ the only one I've noticed, and I tried to look at guys and see if you know they appealed to me outside of the 'That man is, objectively, a good looking guy,' and aside from Stiles, they don't. It's like he only appeals to me sexually because I'm in love with him. So I don't really know what that means, nor do I care. It's funny. I couldn't stand him when we met. He was obnoxious and loud, never quit talking, but...but he smelled good."

Cora snorted with laughter. "Such a werewolf, Derek. Okay big brother, what does he smell like?" She tried hard to hold back the all consuming fit of giggles threatening to break forth from her throat.

"You think this is just hilarious."

"Well yes, but don't let that stop you."

"You're just going to laugh at me." A small wry smile tugged at one side of his mouth. "Like coriander and brown sugar, cedar and rain. It was confusing, to say the least. But then... he just became the only person I trusted, could rely on to not let me down. He saved my life when he didn't even like me. Until one day, I looked over and he was the most beautiful person I'd ever seen. And now... he's changed just because he didn't feel noticed. That's the thing though, Cora. I _ always _ noticed him; I just couldn't do anything about it. You know, that whole age thing." He rubbed his temples, took a moment to calm his nerves.

"He just kept going on about how I only tolerated him for Scott's sake, how much of an asshole he thought I was.” A wry chuckle escaped his lips. “Common sentiment. Look, I made sure he got home safe, gave him some Gatorade and Advil. Cleaned up his puke on the front porch so he wouldn't get in trouble for drinking, and he has rebuffed every attempt I have made since then to talk to him.” Derek ran both hands through his hair. “I sat across from him at the diner, and he said barely five words to me. All that in there," he pointed to the door into the club, "was a slap in the face, because, until his party, I didn't even know he was interested in men. And I'm terrified that all this, the way he's changed himself--his appearance, behavior-- is due to something like the Nogitsune all over again. I can't watch him put himself back together again. I can't. Last time was hell."

"Wow."

"What?"

She patted his shoulder. "That is like... the most words I've heard you say at once in years, especially when it comes to feelings."

His head hurt, which was odd given that he was a werewolf and rarely got them, only serving to remind him how badly he was hurting and how hard he'd been trying to cover it up. "How do I go back in there and pretend it's not kil- I can't watch him act that way? For crying out loud, he just fucked two people in the bathroom."

Cora took his hand. "You could play his game. Make _ him _ jealous." She opened the door leading back into the club.

He pulled his hand free and threw his arms in the air in frustration. "Cora, you don't get it. I don't want to make him jealous! I want- fuck. It doesn't even matter. I'm done. It's too loud in here and smells funny. I'm going home. Can you ask Lydia for a ride?" She nodded. "Thanks for trying to help." He hugged her and pushed through the mass of people to get to the exit on the other side of the club.

Once inside his car, and a few blocks away from the club, he pulled over, just to try and rein in his feelings. The way Stiles had been looking at him as he danced, seemed like Stiles had been doing all that on purpose. Just to make him mad. What? What in the hell? No, scratch that. Why the fuck?

All because he was late to Stiles' party? Even if, in Derek's mind it was done out of love, he thought driving him home and caring for him in his drunken state more than made up for that,. He'd offered to hang out, to talk, on the anniversary of his mother's death, because he knew how hard it was. Derek was even imagining hearing the guy's heartbeat outside his door every fucking night, for crying out loud!

And now? Now? The guy looked at him like he was invisible.

Fuck it. Fuck all of it, and the depressing, empty hole that was his life.

  
  
  
  


 


	7. Climbing Harnesses are Not the Most Comfortable Things to Wear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> “The Lion, the Beast, the Beat”- Grace Potter & the Nocturnals

Stiles walked down the street with Scott beside him, Isaac on the Alpha's other side. Lagging behind them, Lydia and Kira chatted about their plans to go shopping tomorrow. Malia, bored with the conversation, had bailed on them almost half an hour ago stating that she would meet them there with Derek. Despite the fact Scott had not brought up the whole 'Stiles, are you under some Succubus' spell?' thing again (thank fucking god), Stiles still could not relax around them all. he was just waiting for them to say something else.

He was working up to a way to inform the pack of his status change from one definitely human Stiles, to one not at all human. Honestly, he was. Okay, he really hadn't put any thought into it whatsoever other than resolving to never tell any of them...ever. Being under a spell or possessed was apparently too much for them to deal with. How in the hell would they handle the fact that this new change was just him? Nothing he could do about it, no magical enchantment to break. He resolved to tone down as much of his powers as possible.

"Where are we going?" Isaac adjusted the scarf around his neck, the same one he'd changed about five times before they left Scott's. What was with the man and scarves--did he have a fetish? Probably. It was Isaac. Who knew with that guy?

"Pack outing."

He rolled his eyes at the alpha. "I know that. Where?"

"Vertical Endeavors."

Isaac looked over at him. "Excuse me, what is Vertical Endeavors?"

"Uh the indoor climbing place? Don't you remember?" Scott ignored Lydia's whine behind him and looked at Isaac like he'd grown an extra head.

Stiles gave Scott a playful smack on the back. "They opened the place last year, Scott, when Isaac was in France."

"Oh right."

Stiles tried not to laugh, because, even before Djinnigate ( y eah, that's what he would call it from now on...Djinnigate. Had a nice ring to it), he'd been good at climbing. The pack would surely not see anything different about him there.

They had just started to cross the street at the light, when a driver ignored the walk sign and turned right. Stiles had barely enough time to yank Scott back out of the way. Instead of apologizing with the universal, "I'm sorry," horrified shrug, the guy wailed on his horn and gave them all the finger.

"Learn to drive, Jackass!" Stiles called after him, not that he expected the douche to hear him. "What an asshole. You okay, Man?" He asked Scott, who had stumbled backwards into a telephone pole when Stiles saved him from becoming Scott McCall, former Alpha, current pancake.

Scott nodded and dusted himself off.

"That guy just begs to have his day ruined." A wicked thought crossed Stiles' mind, and he rubbed his chin to hide his--what was he going to call that gesture--lip tap, would have to do. "Karma needs to bite him in the form of a flat tire or no...even better, a busted timing chain. Well, any kind of car trouble really. Would serve him right. You can't just ignore traffic laws and almost run over pedestrians just because you drive a BMW."

Not even ten seconds after they crossed the street \-- successfully this time \-- the angry shouts of 'You've got to be kidding me! How could the thing overheat? It's like a month old!' echoing down the street.

"Oh my God! Karma's not only real, but an actual entity!" Stiles joked. "That is very good to know. I wonder what she looks like. You think she's hot?"

Scott just shook his head at his best friend, and the pack continued on their way to their destination.

  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Though he knew the place existed, Stiles had never actually gone inside, which now that he looked at the layout of climbing walls, he completely regretted. Along three of the four walls, stretching all the way to ceiling, he could see sections grouped together by what he figured to be skill level. Some areas had lots of holds fairly close together; those had to be be beginner level courses. The ones with fewer holds, much harder. However, there were not just climbing routes along the walls. No.

More abstract walls had been erected throughout the main floor, in which one could climb up the sides all the way to the top in a fairly straight line, or choose to foray into the curved section and climb the underside of little archways or more craggy styled faces. That had to be murder on the abdominals.

Most of the areas of the gym seemed to use safety harnesses like the one in their school, top-roped, if he remembered right. Situated close to the lobby though, about ten feet away from the concession area, shorter walls had no harnesses, but much thicker, softer mats underneath. Free climbing? The far right wall setup looked more like he saw on all those rock climbing documentaries with mounted leads for the climber to hook into instead of relying on...fuck...what did Coach call those again. _ Think, Stiles, think, think. _ Oh yeah. Belay systems.

Sure enough, waiting for them at the registers, were Malia, Cora, and Derek. Stiles groaned. His plan to make the guy jealous two weeks ago at Mad Hatter, had either backfired, or worked too well. Stiles never could tell with the guy. All Stiles knew was that while he flirted with the bartender, Cora dragged her brother away to 'dance'. Yeah, Stiles didn't buy that for a second. Derek didn't dance. Or at least, the man never did when they hit the clubs as a pack. About twenty minutes later, he saw Cora, but Derek had gone AWOL. Whatever, Stiles got dinner out of that bartender , t hough he realized very quickly the guy had zippo for a personality. Hot enough, but Stiles needed more than looks if he wished to pursue a relationship. Derek was hot as hell, but buried underneath that exterior there was a living breathing personality. It just took time to get to, and if you had patience, you'd find he was quite funny and a hell of a lot more sensitive than he'd ever let on. Unfortunately, he also had walls, high ones he kept rebuilding to keep people out. Not to mention that epic poker face.

Where was he going with this...

Right, Derek and his sister both came today. Cora didn't surprise him all that much. Stiles knew she came home every other weekend to at least see her brother, if not the whole pack. But Derek? Well, he just stood next to his sister trying to look anywhere but at Stiles. _ I bet it was you who put the whole 'Stiles had a romp with a succubus and now he's been possessed by a sex demon' idea into Scott's head. _

After they all paid, their group was given a quick lesson on the safety equipment, the role of the belayer and how best to fulfill that role while their partner climbed. Stiles paid attention, because even though he'd been over this many times in gym class ( w ell Coach was always the belayer, never mind that), he did not want to drop his partner, whoever that turned out to be. _ Lydia, Lydia, Lydia. _ He chanted silently in his head.

Much to his dismay, however, he momentarily zoned out, only to come to and see everyone in the pack already paired off, everyone except Derek. Great, just great. He had to stare at that ass, framed perfectly by the safety harness, all afternoon. He felt his stomach drop. No, no, no. He could not deal with this.

Look, he was mad at the guy; though to be honest, Stiles didn't think he was so much mad at this point as he was frustrated and lovelorn. That anger he had about Derek missing his birthday party dissipated fairly quickly, especially since he drove Stiles' drunk ass home. No, the colder and more aloof than usual vibe that Derek had been sending out lately, had just made Stiles' heart twist even more. It was one thing to want, like, love someone, and it was another thing entirely to never know where you stood with the object of your affection. Unrequited love was a hellish state, and one in which he seemed to perpetually be. No matter how much better he'd been feeling about himself lately with the superficial changes he'd chosen for himself and the all but eliminated ADHD, when it came to a love life,  Stiles was a loser. There he said it.

A big, giant loser.

  
  


  
  


"So, it looks like we're working together. Um, you'll probably need to anchor to the floor when I climb." Derek couldn't keep his gaze on Stiles for more than a few seconds. His mind kept thinking about watching the way Stiles moved at the club. Now though, imagining how he might look ascending the wall, how it might cause concentration troubles for him. _ Just get the fuck over yourself, Derek, and say something. 'Stiles, I think you're wonderful, and even though you seem to think changing yourself will get you more attention, I never cared about any of that. I think we should date.' Yes, Derek, go with that. It's a lot more eloquent than 'Um...so I...kind of love you.' _ Still, the way his feelings always did around Stiles, they, and more importantly the words to express them, sank spikes into his throat, refusing to move to his tongue. "I'm a lot heavier than you...and I've never been climbing like this. Don't want to hurt you if I fall."

Stiles clapped him on the back, barking out a laugh that felt more than a little forced. "I'm sure you'll do fine. All that innate werewolf grace and all. Don't think it's possible for you to fall."

 

* * * * *

  
  


Stiles had been right, Derek did just fine. In fact, they both moved into the routes in the middle of the gym after a couple tries each. Their instructor tied them into the carabiners and then moved on when they progressed to a new section of wall. Other instructors periodically stopped by to observe, offer advice, double check their carabiners, but did not seem concerned for them and eventually wandered away to check on more climbers.

Still, every time Derek started his climb, all Stiles saw was the way the muscles in his back rippled and flexed each time he pulled himself to a new hold. Why did the man have to strip down to his a-shirt instead of wearing a t-shirt like everyone else? Well, Stiles excepted. Those long-sleeved tees were becoming like a second skin to him. He even made sure to wear an undershirt that was long enough to tuck in. The last thing he wanted was to give everyone a show of his clandestine artwork.

And yep, he'd been dead-on about the safety harness' effect on the man's already immaculate ass. What? Stiles could be poetic when he chose to be. More than once, he found he had to adjust himself in his pants. The way those harnesses were designed left nothing to the imagination if the sight of Stiles' climbing partner's beautiful body as he climbed happened to turn him on more than he wanted ( r ead: It totally did, and Stiles was un bear ably hard in his pants). Not to mention, those things were uncomfortable as hell. After every descent, he needed to shift the harness back down to his waist as it rode up a little as he climbed, the tie-in loop at the top of the waistband digging into his stomach with every climb. He was having fun though, and that had to count for something.

For as unwilling as Stiles had been to partner with Derek in the beginning, it was for naught as they turned out to match well with each other. Yeah, Derek weighed about forty pounds more than him, but nothing he couldn't handle. Once, because Derek got a little cocky, he reached for a hold a little too far for his wingspan and slipped off. Stiles, however, handled the man's fall, like a pro and lowered him to the ground. "And here, I thought you were going to be completely infallible."

Derek bumped into his shoulder and leaned into whisper, "Werewolves can't fly, Stiles."

The way Derek's breath lingered over his skin sent a delicious chill up Stiles' spine. However, he caught himself before actually shivering. "Could have fooled me."

After taking the same basic route Derek had and not falling, Stiles suggested they try out some of the craggy faces and holds on the overhang to challenge themselves. Derek, the show off, made it up his route fairly quickly choosing to go the way of the uneven section of the face instead of the arch. Though it took longer, once he made it to the top, the man had the nerve to look down at Stiles and smirk. His feet on the ground, he turned to Stiles. "Beat that."

Stiles did not, absolutely did not, stare at Derek's hands while he unhooked the carabiner from his loop and clipped into the belay system. _ Liar. You did, you totally did. You just imagined those hands all over your naked body driving you absolutely wild. _ His whole body flushed, almost feverish from a combination of the physical exertion and sexual frustration, he swallowed hard and tied in, double checked his carabiner and adjusted the harness for comfort, even though he knew it would not matter in the slightest. Why in the hell did that tie-loop have to be on top?

"Okay, your turn. Don't fall now." Derek joked, clapping him on the back.

"Which one of us has fallen twice today? Right, that was you." He winked. The afternoon had seen him make eight trips up the wall already, and to be honest, his fingertips were starting to get a little tired, burning a bit more with every hand hold. The muscles in his arms screamed for a rest. Maybe this would be the last turn for him. He'd gladly belay for Derek for as long as the man wanted, but he needed a break after this.

 

 

On the ground, Derek watched Stiles intently as he climbed, a look of surprise painted on his face. One, Derek was shocked that he seemed to be going toe-to-toe with him, but there was that whole unit in gym class with the climbing wall. It was how Erica ended up in the hospital where he offered her the bite. Stiles had to have more practice climbing than he had. Two, had Stiles' shoulders always looked that good? Derek could see the flex and tension in his back and arms as he pulled himself to each new hold. Had he been hiding those muscles all along? Honestly, Derek didn't know. Stiles had never taken off his shirt around him. Momentarily, his brain short circuited as he imagined that sight.

  
  


 

 

Two stories up, Stiles was not sure what made him do it, but he paused for a second at the ledge marking the halfway point of his chosen route. It offered a nice spot to take a short breather. He was roasting, way too warm in his two shirts; the necessity of long sleeves almost overheated him, and he knew his increase in average body temperature was partly to blame. He'd been checking it a couple times a day, for science, definitely for science. Instead of good old 98.6, he found himself running at 102.3 consistently with no symptoms of a fever otherwise. Turning his back to Derek, he untucked both his shirts from the harness and pulled them away from his body trying to fan himself.

In a few moments, his body felt cooler even if his hands didn't and tucked the shirts back in. Then, after yet another readjustment of the harness ( r eally that loop was seriously uncomfortable), he continued climbing. For a second, he considered taking the same route as Derek, but decided if it was his last time up the wall for the afternoon, he'd venture up and over the overhang, continuing to the very top to the highest point in the gym. It wasn't much of a diversion from the set route. "I'm switching ropes. Belay in." He snared the rope dangling next to the overhang and clipped-in.

"I'm good down here, Stiles!"

_ Last chance to back out of this. No, you are a djinni. Time to test the limits of your strength. If you fall, the rope will save you. _ Tapping his fingers against the tie-in loop, he tried to psyche himself up for the remainder of the daunting climb and felt his familiar friend, the itch beneath his skin return, stronger this time than he'd ever felt it. That had to be a good sign. He resumed his climb.

Okay, so trying to climb a face almost parallel to the floor was a terrible idea, but he was determined not to fall. The muscles of his core ached; his fingers burned as he gripped the holds like a vice. Slowly, agonizingly slow, he moved to the edge of the overhang. He only needed to get a good grip on the holds for the vertical section to the top, and the rest was probably much easier. He moved his feet into position and managed the first grip for his hand easily.

Yet, when he went to grab with his left hand, he missed. The fingertips on his right were burning, literally. He looked at them and saw them glowing. Afraid of someone seeing even though they were curled around the hold, and shocked by the unwelcome appearance of his powers, his grip gave way and he slipped. For a split second, he panicked, but then remembered the safety rope. His relief, however, was short-lived, extremely short, and he heard a terrifying rip as his tie-in loop tore lo o se. It didn't take long for the rope to slip off the snapped piece of nylon, and Stiles found himself in free fall four stories up.

All those stories about how things happened in slow motion at times like this were true. He managed a quick glance at his harness, noticing the point where it ripped had been the exact same place he'd been tapping only minutes before. With the way his fingers had glowed just before falling, it didn't take much for his brain to put the pieces together and come to one conclusion : His burning fingers had weakened the nylon. This was his fault entirely.

However, he couldn't get his body to move, it was as though he were frozen while he fell. He couldn't even right himself so he might land survivably on his feet. Yeah, he'd shatter the bones in his legs, but he'd be alive... right? Nope, instead, he was going to hit the mat flat on his back and probably die. He didn't care how soft they were ( w hich really wasn't much as the gym didn't expect their equipment to fail this way. He'd watched the attendant inspect all the harnesses as he passed them out), there was little chance he walked away from this, and son of a bitch. With all the supernatural creatures that had tried to kill him, a fall at an indoor climbing gym- really?

His rapid descent came to an abrupt stop, and it took him what felt like an eternity but was mere milliseconds to realize that not only was he not dead, hell not even injured, but that Derek had caught him. Yet, Derek clearly had not been prepared for the intense momentum of catching a falling  Stiles, and only managed to slow his fall, the man's knees buckling as soon as Stiles landed in his arms. That brief moment of no longer being in a free fall was over too quick, and Stiles hit the mat hard. Though he’d landed flat on his back, Derek did break his fall and for that, he was grateful.

Still hurt like hell though.

He'd manage a thank-you when he finally caught his breath. Chest heaving in relief and panic, he panted, feeling his sight turning to tunnel-vision. A panic attack, he supposed, was reasonable after a forty-five foot fall. His head felt foggy, and he was so warm, too warm, everywhere.

He'd pushed himself too far, or just lost focus. That was the only explanation. It had to be.

A gentle pressure on his  hand rubbed circles into his skin. He looked over and saw Derek kneeling next to him, well he saw Derek's knees, but same thing. Stiles shook with adrenaline.

"You're okay, Stiles. You're okay." The tone of Derek's voice surprised him. Where he'd been expecting snark or harsh judgment, he only heard gentle reassurance. He supposed nearly plummeting to his death or at least paralysis called for a soft approach. Not only that, Stiles felt the ache in his back reced ing as Derek pulled as much of his pain away as he could without being seen and then helped him to sit down. "You are okay, right?"

Stiles rubbed his forehead. "Yeah. I mean my back hurts, but I ’m not dead, and I can move my toes. So thanks ."

 

  
  


 

Derek waved over gym officials, who had to have seen Stiles fall. Honestly, Derek had no idea what happened. Yeah, he'd seen Stiles' hand slip off the hold, and he'd braced himself, prepared to apply the brake on the belay. Before he had a chance to respond, the rope lost all slack and fell at his feet in a heap. His eyes, the size of dinner plates, stared in horror as Stiles began falling without a net so to speak. How he even managed to get underneath him in time, Derek would never figure out (werewolf perk probably), but he'd be forever grateful he did. "What happened? I saw you clip the carabiner. You tested it; it looked sound."

  
  


  
  


Stiles,  still lying supine on the floor tried to  calm his breathing before he passed out from hyperventilation,  opted to merely point to his snapped tie-in loop. "That happened. Don't ask me how. I don't know."

When gym employees offered to call paramedics to check him out, he waved them off. He could already tell he wasn't injured. Even his sore muscles felt better. He simply insisted he was shaken up as he rolled onto his hands and  knees and stood .

Finally, the rest of the pack came over, no doubt having figured out by the commotion, what had happened.

"Oh my God, Stiles are you okay?" Sc ott looked terrified.

Stiles gave his friend a weak nod.

"I knew you should have paid more attention. Stiles, you could have been seriously hurt."

 

Stiles lurched forward, like he was preparing to yell at Scott. Derek, put a hand to his chest and held him back. "He paid attention just fine, Scott. His rope didn't come untied, his harness broke."

"What?" The disbelief in the alpha's voice was so thick, to cut through it would take a chainsaw.

Derek gestured to the tie-in loop. "I don't care how good your knot is, your harness snaps, there's not much you can do."

Stiles side-eyed him, but  kept his composure. "Thanks for catching me, but I'm not a Disney Princess, I can speak for myself. I wasn't going to yell at him. I was going to stand up and show him the harness." He sighed. "I wish you all would quit treating me like some fragile child that needs to be coddled. Scott, accidents happen. I'm fine. Okay?" He hadn't even raised his voice. The over-protectiveness just because  they all saw him as the pack's token human was wearing thin.

He stood up and walked to the drinking fountain, taking several large gulps of water. Eventually, he'd figure out why showering and submersion in water made him so tired, but drinking water or any liquid for that matter had no effect. His instincts told him he had a shadow, and he knew exactly who it was. "That was rude of me, Derek , especially since you just saved my ass. I'm sorry. I just... I _ can _ take care of myself under normal circumstances, you know?"

  
  


  
  


Derek came to stand beside him, fighting  the urge to fold him in his arms, pepper his temple, top of his head with kisses- assure himself that Stiles was, indeed, okay the way he said he was . "I know that. I was just...thought you might have still been in shock. Do you want a ride home instead of walking? You look kind of flushed. I thought you might be pretty tired from the workout."

Stiles gave him a small crooked smile. "Yeah, that would be nice, but I'm okay."

Derek patted him on the back, letting his hand linger on Stiles' back while they walked. Derek had been spot-on in his assessment that Stiles seemed to be hiding a body under his clothes, a body different than the scrawny one he always said he had. Also, he'd never noticed how warm the guy's skin was; he could feel the heat through his shirt, and it sent his mind reeling.

The drive to Stiles' house was silent, with nary a word passing between them. Stiles opened the car door and turned to him. "Thanks again, you know, for saving me."

"Any time." That was the best Derek could manage, and he berated himself for yet another missed opportunity as he drove back to the gym. Why was it so hard to just, well be like Stiles for once, and open his mouth to let everything just come tumbling out?

  
  
  
  


 


	8. If I Said I Was Lonely, Would Anyone Believe Me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> “Blackbird”- Alter Bridge

Stiles pulled the roast out of the oven before giving his mashed potatoes one more stir, forever grateful that he'd paid at least a little attention to his mother when she cooked. It was true that his father and he ate takeout more than they should, but that was mostly out of convenience. With Stiles home by himself so often, going through the trouble of cooking a whole meal everyday of the week when only he would be around to enjoy it just seemed like more hassle than it was worth. However, on Sundays, because it had been his mom's tradition, one he decided to continue, he made dinner.

"Mmm. Smells good, Son. What are we having?"

Stiles gave the potatoes a test. "Mom's pot roast." Deciding the main course had rested long enough, he began carving it, not that much work was needed. The meat practically fell off the bone.

"Haven't had that in a while." John smiled. "What's the occasion?"

"Uh, it's Sunday. I know you haven't had a Sunday off in a while, and while I cook dinner for myself every Sunday, it's nice that you're off to enjoy it." He loaded up the plate with a decent, but still healthy portion of meat, a sensible amount of potatoes, and lots and lots of carrots, setting the plate down in front of his dad who side-eyed him. "Carrots are good for you, Dad. High in Vitamin A. Good for your eyes , and I thought you liked them. They’re the coriander carrots she always made. "

John sighed. "I wasn't complaining about the carrots. That's all the potatoes I get?"

"Carbs, Dad, carbs. I'm trying to prevent diabetes." Stiles set two glasses of water on the table and dished up his own dinner.

"So," John nodded after swallowing a bite, "how's school been lately?"

"Fine, I guess. I sent off a few college apps."

"Yeah? Where to?"

"Well Chico just to be safe and have an option close to home, but I sent one to Washington State, Stanford--you know, because of their financial aid program--and not that I think I'll get in or even go if I do... I sent one to Northwestern."

"That's...pretty far away."

Stiles took a drink of water. "I know, but you said I should have diverse options."

 

 

 

John pushed his food around his plate. He knew the day was coming when Stiles would leave for college; he just wasn't prepared for it this soon. Just like he wasn't prepared for the day when his little boy was no longer little and an adult, especially seeing the effort Stiles had made to improve himself lately. Appearances aside, the barely sleeping, quieter than normal, more secretive reminded him Stiles' behavior surrounding Scott and the whole supernatural mess. "Which one is your first choice?"

"Washington."

"Any particular reason? It's not the legalized pot is it?"

Stiles gave a forced laugh. "Really, Dad? You think I'd pick a school solely on whether I could smoke weed without getting arrested?"

John swallowed. "Well, college is a time for experimentation, and-"

"Stop. Just stop. No, I did not apply there because of that."

Maybe it was drugs. That would explain the behavior change. "Is that something you've ever tried?"

Stiles arched an eyebrow at him. "This an inquisition?"

"You mean, am I asking as your father or the sheriff?" Stiles nodded. "As your dad."

Stiles shrugged. " Tried pot o nce or twice. Meh, not my thing."

Honestly, John figured as much. It was Stiles, too curious for his own good. "Nothing besides that?"

"No, why are you suddenly interested in all this? Have I done something to make you think I'm on drugs?"

And damn it. That furrowed brow, wounded expression in his son's face was not what he was going for when he segued into this conversation. "Well, you've been quieter lately, and you spend a lot of time in your room...I was just worried. Are you sure you ’re okay with that fall at the gym the other day?"

 

 

  
  


Everything Stiles wanted to say zipped around in his head. _Well, Dad, if you must know. I am fucking lonely as hell. The only friends I have are in the pack, but they don't... they seem to only talk to me if they_ _need something. With Isaac back, I see Scott even less than before. I'm in love with an emotionally closed off jerk who runs so hot and cold I think the faucet's broken. He saved my life, but fuck if that led anywhere. Oh yeah, by the way, Dad, I also like men. In fact, if I had to be honest, I like them more than women. It's eh, about 35/65 if I had to break it down. Let's see, I lost my virginity in Eichen House to Malia...and I am still not sure which one of us, the Nogitsune or me made that decision_ _, and I didn’t use protection. How responsible of me._ _I have yet to have a meaningful romantic or sexual encounter of any kind. You're never home, and when you are, we don't talk. We never talk, haven't really said anything worthwhile in years. You don't trust me, and I can already see it in your face that you have no intention of believing a word I say. Oh yeah, apparently I'm a djinni, and it's mom's fault, but I can't be mad at her, because I wouldn't exist otherwise. All these physical changes I made were to cover up how hideous I feel because my entire torso is covered in tattoos now, which would be fine if I chose to put them there. I didn't._ He shut all those thoughts down and did what he did so well.

He lied.

"Just the stress of worrying about college, and you know, it's been quiet, supernaturally speaking, in this town for too long. Makes me nervous." _ Please buy that as a legitimate answer. Please, Please. _

"And that's all?"

He nodded. "Yeah. I'm okay. Don't worry about me. So, I was thinking, after we're done eating, we could maybe play something? Chess, Mario Kart. S'up to you."

"Okay."

Not even two minutes later, John's work phone rang, and Stiles' stomach dropped. Every fucking time.

"Uh huh. I'll be right over." John ended the call. "Sorry, Son. Duty calls."

"No, come on. Just one night can't you assign a deputy?" He sounded like a petulant child. Stiles stared at his father's barely eaten dinner. Twenty minutes, they'd had twenty minutes of somewhat quality time, and that was it. That was all it ever was. His relationship with his dad since he was probably seven years old could be summed up in unfulfilling twenty minute increments.

He hadn't even been able to mention dessert.

"You know how these things are."

Instead of saying everything he wanted to, he simply gave his dad a little nod. He watched his father's cruiser pull away from the house and called Scott. "Hey man, I have a shit ton of food left over. My dad got called to a case. What do you say? Dinner and video ga- Oh, you're on a date. Sorry, Man. Have a good time." Hastily, he fired off a message to Derek with blind hope, but the man was in LA visiting Cora, though he thanked him for the gesture. Stiles stared at the screen. "I just don't get you, Derek. I wish I did. This would be so much easier." One by one, the pack turned him down, and Isaac, the asshole actually told him:

  
  


**From: Scarf Man**

**17:11**

**Yeah....no**

  
  


Rude. The man was simply rude. Here he was offering the guy a free meal. Stiles sat back down at the table to finish his dinner. Two bites later, he started bawling, finally understanding how loneliness could kill a man. He'd never felt more alone in his life.

  
  
* *  *** * ***

  
  


Sometime later, Stiles picked his head up off the table and put the food away before going to his room. The air inside was stifling, almost to the point of suffocating him. To be fair though, Stiles felt that sensation was probably just in his head. He just needed some freedom, just a little bit. A drive might do it. How far could he go before needing to turn around and drive back? Tahoe?

He sighed, and dug the closest thing he had to an instruction manual out from under the bed. Flipping through the pages, he wondered if the need to break free and get away was a thing the djinn felt or if it was just him. However, as he searched, he remembered reading about how they could change their shape completely if they chose. He'd done it a little with his "adjustments" to his outward appearance. What if--no, that wouldn't work. But still, what if? And how?"

With the blinds drawn, he focused on an animal. He was just about to tap his mouth, but remember that in whatever shape he chose, he'd no longer have fingers. So, how was this supposed to work? He really needed to get away, desperately.

Frustrated, he closed his eyes and concentrated as hard as he could, picturing the animal clearly in his mind, almost like a prayer. Gradually, he felt that sting and noticed himself shrinking until he was about a foot and a half tall. _ Awesome _ . Wait, he still had his thoughts. Oh this was perfect.

He stretched out his wings. _ Now to figure out how to fly. _ As he'd seen birds do his whole life, he tried to imitate them in the way they flapped their wings for take-off. For the first few times, or fifty, he managed only a few inches of levitation before falling down. Still, he was determined to get this, and after another twenty minutes, cackled with glee when he hovered several feet above the ground. Or he would have cackled were he in human form.

Though his room was not large by any sense of the word, he flew slowly around the place until he felt confident in his ability. When he touched down, he concentrated just the way he had when he turned into the bird, only this time in reverse. Sure enough, about a minute later he lay naked on his bedroom floor.

Unwilling to simply fly off from his backyard, lest he return after his dad made it home ( y eah, that was a conversation he did not wish to have), he dressed and drove to the preserve where he parked in a more deserted area. His Jeep now sat on a small service road, one he knew was hardly used.

The second time shifting was easier, and before he knew it, he soared above the trees as the last remainder of sunlight disappeared beyond the horizon. He flew higher and higher, leaving the preserve behind and venturing into the city, just for kicks. He'd picked a bird of prey on purpose when he decided to shift. They were bigger and less likely to be attacked by owls or other animals. He definitely didn't want that.

At least a hundred feet below him, the lights of Beacon Hills lit up the darkening dusk sky. He'd been on a  plane several times, but never really got a bird's eye view. Well, who did really? So excited by his new-found freedom, he let out a triumphant shout. But wait- that was what he sounded like as a bird?

He called out several times out of pure joy. How could he describe the feeling coursing through his veins at the moment? Anytime he was feeling down, or stressed ( h ell even loneliness didn't matter right then), he had an out, and escape. The thought was exhilarating.

From up here, the city looked so much more beautiful than the supernatural homing beacon it actually was. Confidence surged through him, and he pinned his wings to his body, diving towards the ground. The air rushing past him as he dropped felt like nothing else he'd ever experienced.

After about an hour, he decided it was best that he go collect his Jeep and head home. However, once he'd changed back and redressed, all the freedom he felt flitted away like the wind. Could he be a bird all the time? Maybe he could, and honestly, who would miss him? _ No, stop that. Get out of that negative head space. _

He wasn't sure what made him do it, but as he drove past the florist on 15th street, he turned around and stopped.

  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Small bouquet of poppies clutched in his hand, he wandered along the tombstones. Technically, the cemetery closed at dusk, but if someone saw him, it wasn't like he was defacing anything. They could have him arrested for trespassing, and he was pretty sure he could talk his way out of it. No, he was just mourning a loved one. Ten years later, and it still hurt, would always hurt he supposed.

He tried to visit every few weeks at least, but he knew his dad went months without stopping by. He'd said once it hurt too much, but Stiles often wondered if it was just too much a reminder of the chasm his mother's death had left in their relationship. He loved his father, knew the man loved him back, but...

When he came to his mother's headstone, he dutifully brushed away any debris the same way he did every time, made sure the plot was spotless, or as much as a patch of grass could be. He filled the little metal vase at her stone with the flowers and sat down on the ground. "Hey." His voice broke, and he continued to speak to her the way he always did: in Polish. "Mamusia, it's me, but you knew that. I know I was just here last week, but I didn't really say much. It's just... I miss you, especially on days like today. I feel so alone, and I don't know what to do. I feel like I have no one, no one to talk to, no one who understands me anymore, nothing. Hell,  I’ve resorted to hook-ups just so, for a short time, I can feel wanted, so I don’t feel alone. But then, when it’s done, I just feel worse than before. I hide it well, I guess, because no one has said anything about it.” He took a sharp intake of breath.

“I found your journals. Did you figure out what your wishes did? Did you know what would happen to me, but ran out of time to tell me? It hasn't been all bad. I turned into a bird earlier; flying is amazing. The little perks though are nothing compared to how much more isolated I feel now. I wish you were here. You'd get me though. You'd know what to do. Dad, and I know I've said it before, but he doesn't get me. Never really has, and I read that you prayed for him to get out of the field, and he became Sheriff, but I hardly see him." He wiped his eyes. "Eighteen years old, and I feel like he doesn't know me at all. I'm trying; I really am. And I thought after that whole werewolf mess, where I had to lie to him constantly just to keep him safe, I thought we'd really get to know each other. It hasn't been like that though, Mamusia. Now, I'm lying to him again, not to keep him safe, but because I'm ashamed of what I am. The little perks are nice; it's nice to be noticed by strangers I guess, but deep down I hate being this. Kocham cię, Mama." He tapped the top of her stone and walked back to the Jeep.

After the somber ride back home, he showered and very quickly at that. He was already exhausted, and he had a feeling he'd pass out in the shower if he lingered. Even just the five minute shower sapped his remaining energy, only manag ing to don pajamas before collapsing into bed. He fell asleep in a matter of minutes.

  
  


 

  
  
  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Polish Translation:  
> Kocham cię- I love you


	9. Somewhere In Here There Is a Smoking Caterpillar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> “Voodoo”- Godsmack

Stiles had been wandering around aimlessly for over two hours, two hours since he came the realization that not only did the whole pack now believe he was possessed, but also decided to inform his father of this. Had he been invited to said meeting, he might not have been as pissed off (no, that wasn't the right word. Insulted? Getting there...Dejected. Yep that was the one). Instead, he'd been flat out lied to.

He'd tried to make a video game night with  Scott,  but received the standard, "I can't. I have a date with Kira." Apparently his date was much less romantic than he'd let on, and included a tour of the Sheriff's station. _ Oh wow, Scott. What a Casanova you are. _

Derek had at least responded to a feeble attempt for human interaction with a simple, "I can't; I'm busy." Well, Stiles guessed that was technically the truth.

His dad... that actually hurt the worst, but he guessed he deserved it for all the lies he'd told him over the years, but come on.  _ "So hey, Dad. I was thinking. How about I bring you dinner down at the station tonight? We can chat about the latest baseball trades and acquisitions." _ Yeah, that had been met with.  _ "Sorry, Son. I have to do performance reports tonight." _

Lies. All of it lies.

For one, he'd have loved to have been involved in planning the next step in determining how to catch the latest supernatural threat to Beacon Hills. After the  lull in the Supernatural madness in Beacon Hills, the shitstorm that was this damn town came back in full force.

There had been three murders in the last month, and each one set the pack on edge. Not threefold deaths, but each did have that air of ritual murders. His father called Derek to the scene on the second one two weeks ago. Derek and his outstanding sense of smell detected anise, cardamom, ginger and holly. He'd immediately declared the deaths to be the work of witches  and ones looking to increase their power. See ?T he man was a fountain of knowledge. Holly aside, Stiles thought it sounded like a recipe for Chai not witches.

So for the last week (since the third murder), the whole pack had been canvassing the woods with the help of the local coven. Why weren't they being suspected of the whole mess? Because apparently their leader had been friends with Derek's mother, and the man assured the pack that their coven was peaceful and only focused on nature. Not power.

The search of the preserve had come up empty, which left a hostile and powerful coven wreaking havoc on the town. Among other problems. During the search, he found himself practically compelled  deeper and deeper into the woods. He never told the pack that a delicious smell had been what really called him away from them, not a noise. Nothing in his research had said anything about a super sense of smell as a djinni power. So, how the hell had he been able to smell it from so far away? For a moment that night, he thought he'd heard laughter, and contemplated shifting and hauling ass out of there, but the last thing he wanted was to reveal himself.

Since that first attempt, he'd also mastered a snake form and a jackal. Neither had been appropriate there. When the laughter, real or imagined, dissipated, he started walking back to where he thought he'd left the pack.

Now, knowing they all had been plotting behind his back, not for the resolution of the apparent witch problem, but the "Stiles problem," he was more glad than ever to have kept everything to himself. Which was really too bad, because he really wanted to show someone ,  _anyone_ the things he could do. Hell, being able to shape shift was how he'd overheard the meeting in the first place, viewing the whole thing as a falcon from the ledge outside his dad's office.

So, his pride wounded, feelings more than hurt, he parked the Jeep in the large public lot in the middle of downtown Beacon Hills and started to explore. He'd lived in this city his whole life, and there were still some things he had not discovered. He'd popped in for a quick bite to eat at a hot dog joint he'd driven past many times but never tried ( t he Coney Dog was excellent, would recommend). He'd even found a new thrift store above the rare book shop.

Still, he had no idea what he was hoping to find tonight. He just knew he, himself, did not want to be found, and hiding himself among the smells of downtown might make it harder for the pack to track him if they wanted. That was the one thing he didn't want.

Then, a heady, intoxicating smell caught his attention. In some ways it was similar to the one he'd noticed in the woods. He attributed that to the cardamom. Yet, underneath that was something earthy and enticing, but still sweet. He tried to ignore it; really he did, but it was just too alluring.

Eventually, and he did mean eventually ( t he place took forever to find), his nose led him to a side corridor in the strip mall. There, tucked away in the back, sat a hookah lounge, and curiosity getting the better of him, he pushed open the doors and walked inside.

  
  
  


*** * ***

  
  


The moment he stepped inside, Stiles felt like he'd walked into Wonderland. Any minute he would find that asshole Caterpillar and give him a piece of his mind. Gorgeous tile inlaid tables surrounded by plush floor cushions and ottomans dotted the room. Surrounding the center of the lounge, little rooms closed off by curtains made of sumptuous fabrics gave an air of privacy for patrons, even though their voices still carried throughout. Glass lanterns hung from various places on the ceiling, and each table had its own little light.

Enamored with the interior alone, he trained his eyes upward and delighted in the way the smoke danced above him. Screw Wonderland. He'd been transported to the time of Scheherazade and her mystical tales. Of course, he knew he was in a business inside the Beacon Hills Shopping Strip, but for a moment, he allowed his mind to escape.

He'd tried cigarettes before, didn't like them, but now... Now something within him called out to the smoke, to breathe it in, and he wondered if giving in to that longing would make him stronger, or at least settle his mind. He hoped so, because he was tired of being ashamed of the new him. No longer did he care if the pack thought him possessed, or if his father felt he might be on drugs. There was no changing who he was, who he'd been all along apparently, that identity just dormant beneath his skin.

The man at the front counter looked at him, and Stiles supposed the look of wonder on his face gave him away. "First time here?"

Stiles nodded. "Yep. To be honest, the only reason I came was because I smelled it and couldn't walk past."

"Ever smoke before?"

"A hookah? No. Cigarettes, yes."

"First things first. I'll need to see some I.D." Stiles pulled out his wallet and handed him his driver's license. Satisfied with it, the man returned it and placed a menu on the counter. "So, it's Happy Hour for another twenty minutes. Since you're by yourself, the starting price is $10.00. That gets you one hose and one flavor of Shisha, fancy name for the hookah tobacco. You can create a blend of up to three flavors for an additional $3.00. To refill the bowl it is half of the regular price. There is complimentary tea for each table, and we have a small menu. If you want you can upgrade to a fruit top hookah if you want. That's where fresh fruit is used as the bowl for the shisha."

Stiles wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, I don't think I need that. I want whatever blend, _ that _ table has," he pointed to the table closest to the door, the one he was pretty sure lured him into the lounge in the first place, "because it smells delicious."

The man looked the table up in the system. "Ah, going a bit spicy there. That's a cardamom, rose, and ginger. Interested?"

"Yep." He bounced a bit on his toes. "You know, I was just curious about the rooms along the walls."

"Certainly. Those are just private smoking rooms, there is an upcharge of $15.00 for them added to the bill."

Stiles deliberated. Honestly, he wasn't sure what would happen when he smoked, whether any weird manifestation of his power would surface, and sparing him from being run out of the place with a pitchfork was worth the extra charge. "Got any free? I'm kind of having a bad day and wouldn't mind being by myself for an hour or so."

"Yeah. We have one in the corner. Wait here and a server will be with you shortly. You can tell them your shisha blend when they take your order."

"Thanks." Stiles continued to take in his surroundings. If this turned out to be as good an idea as he anticipated it, he could easily see how he'd blow through a lot of money at a place like this. Well, maybe if he liked it, he could just invest in his own, store it under the bed along with every other piece of himself he kept hidden lately: His carvings, his research, hell- even his porn.

Before long he sat on the sinfully comfortable cushions inside his room and watched, listening carefully, as his server went through the rules and etiquette for the hookah as well as general set up information. He ordered some samosas to munch on as well. When he first brought the tip of the hose to his lips and took a tentative breath, it was like  lightning inside. He'd never felt that with cigarettes, and he knew it had everything to do with who he was now.

The way the smoke settled in his lungs, filling his chest cavity was like nothing he'd ever felt before. It was odd; he'd expected to cough a little, but nothing. It was as though, as stupid as it sounded, he was at one with the smoke, that it was part of him. Energy, a good steady kind, bubbled beneath his skin, and it wasn't like that sensation he'd been getting periodically since his powers came online, awoken, whatever. It was constant and elevating. In short, he loved the feeling, wanted to make sure he could feel it again. This, the perception coursing through his veins now, the fire, he knew with absolute certainty it was supposed to be there. In that moment, he felt like he could dissolve into a wisp of smoke on the wind.

He didn't, in fact, dissolve. That would have been quite awkward.

Enticed by their free Wi-fi, he pulled out his phone and, ignoring the multiple missed calls and texts ( t he one from his dad thanking him for the take-out was the only one worth responding to, even if th e man had lied to him ), and browsed until he found a small hookah for about thirty dollars. The description said it was a good starter product, small but  sturdy and well rated. Then, because he was enjoying himself so much, he found another site for better priced shisha and stocked up. From there, his research led him to other things like medwakh pipes and dokha. _ Eh what the hell. I'll give it a try _ . _ Already made one impulse purchase tonight. What's another? _

From his hose, he took a nice, long drag off the hookah and embraced the way the fire filled him,  exhaling the smoke out slowly. His fingers thrummed and burned as he held the hose; he decided it best to set the thing down before he melted it. But first, another hit. He lay back onto the cushion and blew the smoke in the air above him, wondering what it would take to learn to blow it out in rings. He picked up his phone again to figure out the answer to his question, and stared at his reflection in the black screen of his phone.

The eyes staring back at him, instead of their usual warm brown, had swirls of emerald spiraling around his pupil. He kept staring until his samosas arrived, and resumed watching long after the server left. Of all the changes in him, this one seemed to be the coolest, though clearly, the hardest to hide. He didn't even know what it  meant.

He couldn't figure out what caused the change, but then he looked at his fingers again, because that was where the energy felt the most alive. Even better than his eyes, he watched wisps of green smoke dance off his fingers. The more he moved them, wiggling and waving them, the more the smoke ( m ist or whatever it was) moved. It was mesmerizing. What was it? What did it do?

Curious, he thought up something he wanted to happen, something simple that wouldn't hurt anyone. _ I want someone to sneeze very loudly. _ Then he curled two fingers towards his palm. Nothing. Well, maybe this required the opposite of that gesture; he thought and flicked his middle and index fingers away from his palm as though he were throwing a playing card. Within seconds, that sneeze echoed throughout the whole place.

Without testing them, he was pretty sure he'd just figured out defensive powers. At that moment, he decided, 'fuck it', he was no longer going to be ashamed of what he was. He'd still keep it secret until he figured out the best way to tell everyone ( w ell at least until they apologized for being a bunch of asshats), but he intended to embrace this head-on.

  
  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Stiles had stopped on his way home from the lounge and picked up a pack of incense, just in case, for research purposes (and also...that stuff made tons of smoke). Once he walked inside the house, he grabbed some candles from their emergency supplies in the basement and headed up to his room. Before he did anything, he drew the blinds. Then he lay down one of his favorite innovations on the sill: A long fabric tube filled with Mountain Ash. He put another one, a longer one up against the door. Not only were they effective supernatural blockers, they worked great for blocking drafts. For extra security, he pulled the curtains closed.

"Okay, Stiles. You got this. Figure this out." He lit the incense in the holders around his room and let the place fill up with smoke, while he sat on the floor taking it all in. At some point, and he really didn't know how long it had been, but for the first time, he felt his skin buzzing. Not beneath his skin, but the skin itself. Curious, he shucked his shirt and stood to look at himself in the mirror.

His tattoos glowed back at him, not brightly like phosphorescence, but a soft kind of radiance. He ran his fingers along the scrolling ink that he still didn't understand. Did it have meaning? Were there words he couldn't see hidden in the images? When they'd first shown up, he hated them, and now, looking at them like this he felt something altogether different: Pride.

Did they glow brighter the closer to a fire he got? He reached out his hand to the flame of one of the candles, and found that no, they did not glow brighter. However, as his fingers passed above the flame, he watched the smoke turn green and leap to his fingers. The longer his hand remained there, the more smoke appeared until it wrapped around his arms, legs and torso, swirling all around him like snakes. He let it overtake him completely, and was surprised how little fear he felt.

The purpose of the whirlwind of smoke was one Stiles could not puzzle out, and that, well that unnerved him a little. There had to be a reason for this. Was it an offensive or defensive power, or just really fucking cool? Let's face it; it was really fucking cool, the way his eyes shone brightly in the mirror, blazing green to match the wisps around him. He looked, in a word, powerful.

What if he could just become smoke? What would that feel like?

He didn't need to wonder long, because he felt his body at once both shrinking down, and expanding, dissolving as he watched his reflection, until there was no more reflection. Still sentient, he floated around the room like air. Hell, maybe he was air. This was such a peaceful state in which to be. He could travel away on the wind, but how would he get back? Did he just think where he wanted to go, and he would just m-

Yep, that was how it worked. One moment he hovered by the door, and the next he found himself mere inches above his pillow on the bed. This was awesome. _ I'd love to see you werewolves pull this off. _

In that moment, he'd never felt more alive.

 

 


	10. In This Group of Superheroes, I'm Merely Aqualad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> “Slip Out the Back”- Fort Minor (feat. Mr. Hahn)

For whatever reason, Stiles had forgotten about the pack meeting, which was stupid of him considering they had some sort of witches wreaking havoc leaving a trail now five bodies wide behind them. Instead, he lay on the deck in his backyard, flat on his back, legs propped up against the railing. He stared up at the fading daylight. Hookah hose in hand, he inhaled deeply. After a little trial and error, he'd perfected this blend, subbing out the rose for jasmine, leaving in the cardamom and ginger.

Unfortunately, he was almost positive his dad figured out he was smoking, and the man seemed to be wrestling with how to talk to him about it. _ Ha, jokes on you, Dad. I'm pretty sure as a supernatural being born of smoke, I am immune to the harmful effects of this stuff. _ Concentrating, he exhaled a perfect set of smoke rings and watched them climb higher and higher into the sky.

His blissful reverie was interrupted by a couple pairs of feet treading into his yard and up the deck stairs. "Forget about something did you?"

Stiles  tilted his head back so he could look over his shoulder where Scott and Derek stood looking none too pleased with him. "So it would seem. I'm sorry; it slipped my mind."

Scott looked like he was struggling with his words, but Derek just stood there with his arms crossed. "We have a witch problem, remember?"

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at him. "I'm sorry; I forgot we did. No one has said anything to me about that for two weeks." He took a drag, and then showed off his new skill, well aware of how his mouth looked when he did. One spinning ring of smoke wafted towards Derek.

"What is _ this _ ?" Scott asked, pointing to the hookah. "Since when do you smoke?"

"Since about two weeks ago."

"And why?"

"Would you believe I was distraught?" He trained his gaze back skyward. It wasn't a lie.

Scott's brows furrowed in confusion. "That stuff's gonna kill you; you know that right? You're not a werewolf."

"Oh gee, Scott. How could I ever forget that little fact? Hate to break it to you, but simply being in this pack is going to kill me long before this shit ever will. I mean, I've been kidnapped...twice since you've been bitt-"

"What? No, you haven't"

Stiles pointed a thumb over his shoulder in Derek's direction. "Once, by his psychotic uncle after he attacked Lydia and left her for dead. Then, by that asshole Gerard, who kicked my ass because I tried to free Erica and Boyd. Then, let's see. Oh yeah, I wrecked my jeep in storm caused by _ your _ ," he pointed at Derek again, "ex-girlfriend. Before that, I drowned myself for sixteen hours, which has frankly, put me off swimming or being submerged in water for the rest of my life." _ Nice cover, nice. _ "Thanks for that. Then, well  let's not forget that whole Nogitsune thing, because I mean, I sure haven't, and apparently, neither have any of you."

Derek finally spoke. "Come with us so we can finish the meeting. We told them we would grab you when we went to pick up pizza."

"So polite." He rolled over and picked up the tongs from the deck, dropping the remaining embers of charcoal into the terracotta flower pot he'd filled with water. After he'd cleaned up, he made sure to avoid eye contact with both of them, well aware by now that inhaling smoke of any kind ( h ookah, his medwakh pipe, the occasional cigarette, candles, barbecue) turned his eyes green. The subtle spirals he'd seen the first night progressed to swirling maelstroms of green irises, ones that resembled the smoke that blew from his fingers. He had yet to puzzle out a way to stop his eyes from changing. At first, he thought maybe they only turned when he breathed in smoke, but he'd watched them change in the rear-view mirror one day on his way home from school. As a result, he'd been keeping track of his emotions, figuring maybe they were tied to that. One thing was for sure, while his eyes didn't turn completely, they did flicker for about ten minutes after a shower. He supposed they probably did the same while he showered.

His hands, well that was a simple matter of will.

"Okay, Stiles. What the hell is going on-"

"Nope, Scott. I'm not talking about this anymore." He ducked into his room to put away his hookah and to grab a block of wood and his three bladed pocket whittling knife to keep his hands busy while the meeting wore on. He found, he actually got more fidgety now when he sat completely still than he ever did before. He tucked the items into the pocket of his hoodie.

He declined a ride, and instead chose to drive to the meeting by himself. The last thing he wanted was to be left without an escape should the meeting turn out the way he expected it to.

 

*** * ***

  
  


"So, this is the location of the most recent body, but I was able to track the scent all the way back to here." Derek placed a magnet over a spot on the map. "If we look at every location where bodies have been found," he grabbed a pen and connected the lines, "you can see what we have. I'm pretty sure the center is important to whatever their big plan is. Unfortunately, as you can see, that spot is dangerously close to the cliff over the lake. We need to be careful."

Stiles had connected the dots on this two days ago when the last body had been found. He'd tried to tell his dad and was met with stonewalling. Derek, it seemed did listen to him. So at least he had that. Truth be told, knowing the end game had something to do with water, made him nervous.

He adjusted the plastic bag in his lap so that it would continue catching the wood shavings. For as slowly as he needed to go in order to not draw attention to himself, this carving was already going to be one of his favorites; he could just tell. The wolf stood on all fours and howled at the moon, instead of howling while sitting on his hind legs. He wasn't sure what compelled him to stylize the fur, but now as he looked at it, the swirls looked like smoke. He'd definitely have to finish the shading at home, and then find some way to get it to Derek.

"Stiles, are you even listening? You're the one who is most at danger in this mess." Derek chided.

"Right. Sorry. Yes, I'm listening."

"Sure you are." Isaac joked. "I'm just gonna say it. You have done a complete 180 since I saw you last."

"Yes, I'm aware, thank you, Isaac. Considering the last t ime you saw me before you absconded for France was just after you all freed me from demonic possession, I’ll count that as a win. "

He set down his finished piece on the end table, slightly hidden by a small stack of books. Once the knife was folded and safely stowed, he turned to face the rest of them. "Sorry if my needing to occupy my hands in order to keep my brain focused is a problem. Carry on about the witches."

"Bullshit."

Stiles gritted his teeth and stared down at his lap. _ Do not snap. Do not snap. _ "Frankly, I feel I am actually the least attractive target for witches." Okay, so that was a little bit of a lie. He probably should have spoken up about the way their specific herb choice had first appealed to his nose and then to his palate. It was almost as if they knew what he was and were either afraid of him, or looking to use him. "What could a witch possibly want with me compared to all of you?" He swallowed hard, turning his phone over and over in his hands. _ Do not go back to that mindset. _ When he noticed his eyes once more in the darkened screen, he winced. Crap.

"Actually," Scott looked hesitant to continue, "is that true lately? Everyone seems to notice you now, for reasons that seem all but natural. Why wouldn't th-"

They were all but natural, but not in the way Scott was implying, and that was it, the straw that broke him. He would hide this from them all if it killed him. Calmly, he stood and turned to leave, making it to the door before anyone said anything.

"We're worried about you."

Praying he was too far away for them to see the change in his eyes, he let them have it, unleashing a verbal assault too long in the making. "No, you're not! You're worried about some imaginary being you think has control over my body. How many times do I have to tell you before _ any _ of you will listen to me?" He threw his hands up in the air in frustration. "I'm sorry if finally having a healthy self-esteem, especially after that damned fox possession, is a problem for you all! Does it threaten you, having me be confident instead of the stress - case I was before? Because let me tell you, I feel great.

"For once, people are looking at _ me _ , me, Stiles who can't focus, who was too gangly, too weird for anyone to pay a lick of attention to."

Scott backtracked. "We _ are _ worried about you. We don't want you to get hurt again."

He rubbed his temples. "That's right, the fragile person, who stuck by you after the bite, and yeah I know that was my fault, please don't remind me again. Believe me, I know _ all _ this is my fault. The same person who held Derek up for two hours in eight feet of water, who was willing to commit Seppuku to save everyone from the Nogitsune, when I expected full and well for it to kill me! The same Stiles who keeps saving all your asses! Yes, let's not let him get hurt." He could feel fire beneath his skin and took several shuddering breaths. _ No flames. Got that? No flames. _ His shoulders slumped in defeat. "Do you remember what you said when you held that flare? Well, I do. I remember every fucking word. 'Do you remember the way it was before that? You and me, we were... we were... we were nothing. We weren't popular. We weren't good at lacrosse. We weren't important. We were no one.' Scott, do you realize that, knowing that you were popular, good at lacrosse, had the uniqueness of being a werewolf, all those things you said were describing me? Because I am _ still _ not popular, even being friends with you and Lydia. I still suck at lacrosse, and in this pack chock full of supernatural beings, I'm the only who w...is NOTHING! I'm sorry that being like _ me _ was so fucking horrible, and now that I'm getting attention, it scares all of you!" He glanced up briefly at Scott. The guy looked like he'd been slapped, and good. That was exactly how Stiles wanted him to feel. He'd wanted to say all that for almost two years now.

"That is not-"

"You are all so concerned with this idea that this is a repeat of the Nogitsune. Did you maybe consider that this is just me? That maybe I was _ always _ going to be this way? That I changed my clothes, worked out more because I wanted to, because I was tired of being ignored. I'm well aware I'm the weird one in the bunch of supernatural supermodels."

Derek tried to diffuse what he could see to be a ticking time bomb in the room. "It's just...you didn't know the Nogitsune was possessing you for quite a while."

Stiles huffed. "You don't believe me." A frustrated chuckle broke free from his throat. "No one does, not you, not any of you, not my dad. Hell, anytime there's a supernatural threat he won't even listen to me until Scott corroborates my story. None of you ever listen to me either."

"Oh come on. People believe you." Scott was trying. He just couldn't think of the right words to say.

"Riddle me this, Batman. If people believe me, why did my own father think I was lying when I tried to save him from the Darach? You see, that is what I gave up by being involved in this shit. I am completely untrustworthy because I tried to help you all."

"Batman?"

"Yes Batman, Scott. Your refusal to kill anyone makes you Batman. I'm just Aqualad, lamest superhero sidekick ever, because there is no scenario in this supernatural shitstorm in which I end up important." His voice broke.

"Stop that! You know you're important to this pack. You're just taking things too seriously."

Still not making eye contact for fear of his eyes being the wrong color, he pointed to everyone in the group, one at a time, as if making a list, calling them out as he did so. "Werewolf, werewolf, banshee, kitsune, werecoyote, werewolf, werewolf, werewolf." He pointed to his chest and said nothing.

Without missing a beat, Scott responded. "Human."

So fed up with everything, Stiles didn't even bother to correct him.. "Yeah, and I'm being oversensitive. So long, Batman, Wolverine, Gambit, Jubilee, Siryn, Mystique, Magneto and Scarlet Witch. Aqualad has better shit to do." Before he could completely fall apart, he fled the loft as fast as he could.

  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Derek caught up to Stiles before he was able to start his Jeep and knocked on the passenger side window. Thankfully, Stiles unlocked the door so Derek could climb in. He gestured to the ignition; Stiles seemed to understand and turned the engine over. Then, he turned on the radio, low but just enough to block out their conversation. Stiles didn't meet his eyes, just stared at his hands, clenched tightly around the steering wheel. "I didn't know Peter kidnapped you."

Stiles gave him a little nod. "How would you? You were chained up in the basement of your old house when it happened."

"Still. I wish you didn't think you were unimportant to the pack. You're intuitive and courageous, especially for someone-"

"Human?"

"I was going to say without supernatural healing."

Stiles chuckled. "Yeah, important or not, I don't know how to get you all to believe me when I say I am 100% certain I am not possessed, nor am I under any succubi spell. I changed the way I dressed, because I was tired of the plaid. I decided to become more confident, because I was tired of feeling like I didn't belong anywhere. This, all this, is just me, just Stiles."

Derek rubbed the back of his neck. "You didn't need to change to get noticed. If someone can't see how great you are-"

"Then what? They don't deserve me? What if I don't care? What if I love them flaws, martyr complex and all?" Stiles ran two frustrated hands through his hair. "Look, I need to go. I said some things in there I shouldn't have. I threw stuff Scott said while doped up on Wolfsbane in his face. That wasn't right. I'd go and apologize, but I'm not in the best frame of mind right now. Can you make them listen to you? I promise you, that what you are seeing is me, only me. No one is in control of me. I just-" He sighed. "I wish I could tell you what's going on with me right now, but...I just can't."

Derek nodded and exited the Jeep, staring after Stiles as he drove away. Another missed opportunity. _ You fucking coward. _

 


	11. Twenty Minutes Till I'm Useless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> “The Storm”- Savatage  
> “Heavy In Your Arms”- Florence and the Machine

A strong hand yanked Stiles behind a tree, knocking the wind out of him as he hit the bark hard. He was just about to throw a punch, when familiar arms wrapped around him, stilling him.

"Did you see them?" Derek  asked , his lips mere inches from Stiles ’ ear .

Stiles nodded. Their theory about the witches using this location had been spot on. However, they did not realize the coven would be close to fifteen strong. The pack had lain a trap, and as with most of their plans, it failed. As it turned out, they played right into the coven's hands.

However, it was not as though they went into the night unprepared. Deaton had come up with a basic amulet for each to protect them majority of the hexes flying around them. Still, the preserve was alight in magic sailing through the air, striking trees, throwing up dirt. Above them, the night sky had grown from clear to ominous. Clouds had long since rolled in; thunder rumbled overhead, and the howling wind made walking near impossible, much less running.

Stiles felt a bout of panic rise up like bile in his throat. This was just like that night with the Darach all over again. Any moment now, he would crash his Jeep into a tree, earning his first concussion. The ground would try to swallow their parents whole, and... enough. He swallowed down his anxiety.

Derek must have seen the fear in his eyes, and placed comforting hands on Stiles' shoulders. "Did they see you?"

"I don't know."

"Are you hurt anywhere?"

When Derek tried to assess him for injuries, Stiles waved him off. "I'm fine."

As soon as the witches had shown up, it had been hard to hide the fact the pack's initial fear for Stiles' safety had been spot on. Truthfully, he'd pieced it together that they might have been after him. Once the fourth body had been found and the aroma Derek had smelled at the first murder now so overwhelming even Stiles' father could smell it, he just knew. He'd only been at the scene for two minutes, before he felt his head swim with a haze. It was as though with each new crime, a layer had been added to the scent, each one drawing him in more like they'd made the perfect djinni catnip. At the last one, he'd been so overwhelmed by it, he actually got high off it. Derek noticed, and how Stiles managed to convince him that it was just an overpowering smell, he would never know. As it was, he spent most of the night giggling, stoned in his room.

So when those fifteen witches started their ritual, and that cloud of magic or herbs or whatever the hell it was, hit the air, he'd been knocked on his ass. He  knew; the whole pack knew in that moment that they'd come for Stiles, but he was the only one who knew why. The coven, the sneaky enchantresses they were, remained vague about why, spouting things like 'You don't even know how special this one is. Do you? What he could do for you?' and 'Do _ you _ even know yourself, your worth?' Of course he didn't know. It wasn't like his gift came with an instruction manual.

The amulet around his neck had blocked the curse sent his way, and then all hell broke loose. Wolves attacked; the coven retaliated, each trying to get the upper hand. Hell, Lydia had screamed three times, and those fifteen witches were down to nine. Three well coordinated attacks, and Peter's brand of overkill took them down, which led them to where they were now.

Derek's amulet had been destroyed with an especially well aimed hex hitting him straight in the chest, shattering the glass which held the protective herbs. Since the man had volunteered to be Stiles' personal guard dog ( o kay, so he didn't use those words exactly. Plus Stiles couldn't figure out why Derek of all people would volunteer, but here they were), once Derek was unprotected from the magical curses, Scott turned to them and, with red eyes, shouted one word: Run.

So, with Stiles in front, the two of them bolted.

Another crack of lightning came down from the ground, and if Derek had not been a werewolf and jumped out of the way with Stiles in his arms, they'd both be barbecue...well maybe just Derek. Stiles hadn't quite worked out whether or not electricity could harm him.

Stiles panted from where he lay, splayed out on the ground, flat on his back. With lightning came... He tried to calm his breathing to no avail.

Beside him, Derek flinched at the boom of thunder. For a werewolf, this had to be torture. For Stiles though, the only way the whole damn scenario could become torturous would be for-

Before he could even finish his thoughts, the clouds opened up above them, and down came the rain.

He'd been experimenting with his shower lengths. How long could he stay in before it completely drained him to the point of exhaustion, that sort of thing. The answer was simple: Twenty minutes. After twenty minutes, he'd be utterly useless, lethargic, limbs heavy and unwieldy. Someone would need to carry him out of there, and then he'd have to fess up to all he'd been hiding.

"Hey, are you okay?"

What? Why would Derek ask him that?

"You're shaking." He helped him to his feet.

"Would you believe I'm terrified?" It was the truth. Never did he think he'd grow afraid of prolonged water exposure. Yet, here he was, scared out of his mind, teetering on the edge of a panic attack.

Something in Stiles' eyes must have convinced Derek. "Come on."

Derek grabbed his hand, and Stiles tried to ignore the way his stomach fluttered at the contact. His heart, he knew was already racing from before, and it was not likely Derek, if he was even listening for it, would pick up the difference between flustered and fear. It took a moment for him to get his feet moving. In his head, Stiles began the stopwatch, counting the seconds as they turned to minutes.

Three minutes and counting. The white fabric of his long-sleeved tee growing wetter with each passing second. There was no way he could keep his secret now.

As they ran, Derek led him further away from the initial battle. Dodging trees and roots with the innate grace only a werewolf could muster, he pulled Stiles along. From the distance, an ear splitting scream echoed.

"Was that...are we-"

Derek stopped, not chancing a glance behind him. "No, at least not one of our weres. I'd feel that." He listened intently ( h ow could the man pick out a single noise in the cacophony around them?) and shook his head. "Scott doesn't sound emotionally distressed. So, Kira's probably fine. A witch. Definitely another one down."

Seven minutes, thirty-three seconds.

  
  


  
  


 

What they'd failed to realize, was that yes, they'd fled the battle, but the fight had moved. For as much as the loss of some of their witches would hurt the strength of their magic, the coven had managed to push the pack right where they wanted them. As soon as Derek and Stiles breached the top of a little hill, they skidded to a stop.

With the howling wind and rain, the thunder and lightning, not to mention the crack of magic striking trees, Derek had not been able to pinpoint the battle's location. Now, everyone stood in the exact spot he'd marked on the map. Instinct told him to push Stiles behind him, away from danger, but five feet behind him stood the edge of the cliff.

All it took was one witch to look in their direction to shift the tide. The remaining six--why did it have to be six--witches descended upon them. The pack ran after them, but they could only give chase. Derek wondered if he could, if hit with a curse, fall forward? If so, would Stiles be safe behind him? Derek didn't have time to think of an answer as words he didn't understand carried on the wind. The High Priestess prepared to strike.

 

 

  
  


Ten minutes, forty-seven seconds. Stiles tried to puzzle out a place to hide from the rain, to no avail.

Stiles, who had been staring, frozen in place, wished that it had not been raining. He needed to generate smoke, and a lot of it, if he had any chance of protecting both Derek and himself. However, it seemed that his will and desire was enough to get those now familiar, now comforting wisps of green to dance off his fingers. More, he needed more. He watched the witch as the magic crackled off her hands towards them.

_ Not today _ . By some miracle, billowing plumes of smoke rose from his fingers.

Though he hadn't had time to perfect his defensive powers, or even figure out what they did ( t hey had to be good for something), he flicked the index and middle fingers of both hands away from his body with more force than he thought himself capable, the waves of smoke colliding with the hex in a deafening crack, sending hazy shock-waves rolling away from the impact. Beside him, Derek fell unconscious, and Stiles hoped it was more from the noise and not residual effects of her magic. When the force of the collision made its way to him, he felt weightless, like he floated on the wind.

It didn't take him long to realize that, no, he hadn't managed to shift into smoke in heavy rain. He was falling. The blast had thrown him back, and ultimately, off the cliff. The blast had sapped most of his strength, and try as he might, he could not shift.

With still enough sense about him, he righted himself as best he could, hitting the water feet first with a jolt of pain radiating up his body from the soles of his feet. When he surfaced, he spluttered. The water of the lake had always tasted foul. Today was no exception, but now, it was also freezing. He'd been running warmer than normal since the tattoos appeared, but even that was not enough to stem the flood of heat sapping from his body.

Back up top, he'd seen the witch go down as her hex rebounded. Derek was out cold, and no one else had been watching. No one knew he was down here. To make matters worse, he'd lost track of time. Was it twelve minutes or fourteen? Seventeen?

He was going to drown down here.

"Help!" But amidst all the noise, his cries sounded like whispers. Each stroke, each push and pull of the water as he treaded was torturous. His arms weighed a ton; his legs weighed more. He could hear the blood pounding in his ears. "Somebody help me, please!" Hot tears streamed down his face. With one more desperate plea, his vision tunneled in on him, and he passed out.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Above, Derek regained consciousness, confused and shaken. As he stood, he took in the scene before him. No witches remained standing. Were they dead? He didn't feel like listening for a heartbeat to find out. Truth be told, he probably couldn't pick them out anyway. His ears were ringing.

Scott ran up to him; his muffled words too quiet for him to hear. Derek stared at him, dazed. Finally, Scott shook him, and alertness returned. "Where's Stiles?"

Derek looked around him frantically. "He was right beside me." Derek shook his head, recalling the blast of green...something that shot away from Stiles' hands right before he passed out. "She...she sent a curs- Oh fuck!" Derek ran to the edge of the cliff, and using his wolf vision, peered down at the water below.

If Stiles hadn't been wearing a white shirt, hadn't been so pale, he'd never have seen the outline of his body floating face down in the water. Without thinking, and definitely ignoring Scott's protests to the contrary, that they would go down the long hill to the beach where it was safer, Derek shed his jacket and boots, leaping off the cliff and dove for the water.

He spit the water out of his face when he broke the surface, swimming the twenty yards or so that separated him from Stiles' unconscious form. As he turned him over to get his face out of the water, he felt a weird sense of reverse deja vu wash over him. They'd been in this position before. Only, he was the one immobile, unable to save himself, and Stiles used up all his strength to keep  Derek’s head above the water for hours.

  
  


He didn't have time to check for vitals; he'd have to do that on the beach. "Please don't be dead, Stiles. I don't think I'd recover losing you." He could feel himself breaking down at the thought, and soon, words he'd meant to say, feelings he'd buried came pouring out of his mouth. Apparently, the only way he could confess this to Stiles was if the man was unconscious. __

With his one free arm, he slowly swam to shore. Wasting no time, he got Stiles to the beach, splaying him out on the muddy ba n k. He felt for a pulse, and at least there was that, but Stiles wasn't breathing. Worse still, his body was ice cold. Mouth to mouth was definitely not the way he imagined the first time their lips met, but he didn't have time to dwell on that. Lifting Stiles' head back, he began rescue breathing.

After a minute or so, Stiles coughed. His eyelids, however, remained closed. Derek sobbed with relief. With his first full breath, a tiny wisp of pale green smoke rose from Stiles' lips, wafting the short distance that separated him from Derek.

Derek didn't have time to think or react before it met his mouth. As he breathed in the smoke, confusion set in. It tasted....sweet, like gingerbread almost. Within moments, a heady and unnerving energy thrummed through him, and for the second time in half an hour, he lost consciousness.

  
  
  
  
  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Derek awoke some time later to the harsh lights of Deaton's examination room shining in his face. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes and tried to sit up; he almost fell over. Two sets of strong arms caught him before he tumbled to the floor.

"Whoa, whoa. Easy there, Derek."

  
He blinked several times, trying to focus on Scott's face to go with the voice. His head ached like it had never before. What in the hell happened to him? He'd pulled Stiles from the water, got him breathing again, and then- nothing; his mind was blank. He felt his stomach roll, and luckily for Deaton, Scott noticed and slid a trashcan in front of him just in time for him to empty his stomach. Nervous, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, sighing in relief to not find it black. He looked around the room. "Where's Stiles?"

Scott steadied him. "Easy there. He's in the other room. Deaton had to jack the heat up; he said Stiles felt like he'd been frozen."

"What...happened?" Derek rubbed his temples as he tried to remember what his mother had given them any time they'd had a headache related to something supernatural, one which didn't heal itself right away. It was something that started with an 'f.' Fuck if he could remember. All he could think about at the moment was Stiles.

"We were hoping you could tell us. After the green blast of magic the witch-"

"It wasn't the coven; Stiles did that. Don't ask me how."

Scott furrowed his brows in confusion. "I don't understand."

Derek swayed back and forth where he stood. Man, was he dizzy. Both Scott and Isaac helped him to sit back on the exam table. "The green mist came from Stiles' hands. I watched it happen. I meant, what happened after I pulled him from the water and got him breathing? In my head, there's nothing."

Both Scott and Isaac's faces looked grim. "We don't know. You were both unconscious when we found you. Lydia wrapped Stiles in a blanket, and we brought you both here."

Just then, Deaton came into the room. "Oh good, Derek. You're awake."

"Is Stiles..."

Deaton's face grew stern. "He won't wake up. I have him wrapped in several blankets  in addition to the one in which you brought him."

"Is it hypothermia? I told him he needed a coat." Scott looked like he was about to cry. 

Deaton shook his head. "Symptoms point to that, but body temperature wise, he should be at least alert right now. A temp of 96 does not cause loss of consciousness."

Derek remembered something odd he'd noticed about Stiles when he'd caught his falling form in the gym. "When his harness broke at the rock wall, and I caught him, he felt like he had a fever, but he smelled fine, not sick at all."

Deaton motioned for everyone to follow him, and Scott threw Derek's arm around his shoulders to keep him from falling as he walked. The inside of exam room two felt like a sauna, and yet, there on the table, Stiles lay absolutely still. Derek feared the worst. When Deaton asked about the night's events, Derek filled him in on Stiles' actions.

"That's very interesting. I was not aware he was practicing magic."

"Neither did any of us," Scott said.

"No." Derek shook his head, wincing as he did so. "That wasn't magic. Look, I remember my mother's interactions with witches from when I was a kid. You probably do too," he said to Deaton, "and this looked nothing like magic. There was no incantation or anything. It was like he produced the smoke from his hands and then threw it at the witch. What if...what if, he's like Lydia? She was a banshee, and didn't know it until her powers manifested. What if Stiles is something, and it's only come to his knowledge recently?"

"That's a possibility." Deaton shut off the tap on the warming bath he'd drawn. With help from the pack, they unwrapped all the blankets but one from Stiles. Isaac and Scott set him gently in the bath, and Deaton clamped the fingertip thermometer ( t he one he'd bought for his more 'human' patients) to Stiles' finger. Then, he turned his attention to the pack. "How long was he in the water?"

Derek shook his head. "I don't know. The blast knocked us out, but I gave him mouth-to-mouth. He was breathing again, before I passed out."

They debated for a minute regarding what might be wrong with Stiles, when the beeping alarm on the thermometer rang out. Deaton checked the screen, and the look on his face did not give Derek much hope. "Scott, help me get the blanket off him." As soon as the throw had been pulled away, the soaked fabric of Stiles' shirt now transparent, showcased his tattooed torso. While the pack jumped back in shock, the tone of Deaton's voice spoke of immediate concern. "Get him out of the water. Do it now." When they had his still unconscious body lying atop a warming pad on the exam table, Deaton cut away most of Stiles' wet clothes, throwing a dry blanket over his waist and legs.

The pack stared at Stiles in shock. Deaton, the consummate professional, however remained calm. "I can see by your faces none of you knew about these?" He threw a few more blankets on top of him.

"He got squeamish when I got my tattoo. He wouldn't do this to himself. What..."

Deaton kept pressing for more information. "Has anything about his personality changed lately?"

A cackle escaped Scott's throat. "Just about everything. He quit taking his Adderall, but doesn't seem to need it, has actually managed to flirt successfully. I mean, we all thought a succubus got-"

"He took up whittling," Isaac cut in.

"Yeah, there's that. He's just different."

Derek finally felt his dizziness subside enough so he could stand, and he pulled the blanket up to cover Stiles from his shoulders to toes. "He's magnetic and confident now, almost cocky sometimes. Oh, and he started smoking."

  
  


  
  


  
  


That caught Deaton's attention. "He does? Cigarettes?"

"No, it was this weird thing with like arms or something."

"He was smoking a hookah," Derek corrected Scott. "The smoke smelled a lot like the scent of the herbs the witches used at the first couple of bodies. They seemed to know what he was."

"Sounds like they were luring him specifically." Deaton pulled the blankets once more from Stiles' torso and examined the green marks more carefully. "You said the smoke blast was green?"

"Yeah," the pack said in unison.

"Interesting." When he grabbed Stiles' hand, lifting his arm, so he could get a better look at his 'patient's' fingertips, Stiles' hand clamped down onto his. Within moments, Deaton felt his skin where it met Stiles' fingers grow hot, and seconds later, yanked his hand free. He stared down at the slight burn left on his skin. Instantly, he left the room.

 

 

 

 

Derek could hear him leafing through pages of a book.

Scott rubbed his temples. "I should call his dad. He's already on the scene, dealing with the booking of the remaining witches. Whatever Stiles did, left the rest of the coven alive but unconscious. He knows Argent and Peter are taking care of the witches' bodies, but he- I didn't tell him about Stiles." Scott grabbed his phone and left the room, taking most of the pack with him.

Derek, however, remained behind, still dizzy, head still pounding. Since he was alone in the room, he pulled a stool up to the table and sat down. Unfazed by the fact that Stiles just burned Deaton when the man tried to touch him, he covered Stiles' hand with his own. He curled his fingertips over the edge of Stiles' hand so that they touched the man's palm. Derek hoped the whir of machinery, the words of Scott's conversation with the Sheriff and the pure exhaustion of the rest of the pack lent him an air of privacy. He bent his head down so his lips were almost touching Stiles' ear. "If you can hear me, I need you to wake up _. _ You have to be okay," he whispered. Instead, of burning him, Stiles' hand grew comfortingly warm.

The room began spinning again. Derek blinked several times trying to focus. Why the hell did his head hurt this badly? Why was he so dizzy? Was there Wolfsbane in the lake water or something?

Unable to keep his eyes open thanks to his mounting nausea, he lay his head down next to Stiles on the metal table and closed his eyes. He felt exhausted, and yet, that strange pulse of energy that had been simmering in his veins since he'd awoken remained. It worried him; Derek didn't like when he didn't understand things that happened to his body. Despite that, he didn't let go of Stiles' hand, even as he felt himself being pulled under again.

A muffled voice pulled him back into the waking world. "Are you okay?"

"I don't think so." Derek's stomach rolled as he sat up. "What happened?" He looked around the room and noticed daylight had broken. He'd slept most of the night in that awkward position, head resting on the table, even if, at some point his hand had drifted from atop Stiles' to under his head like a pillow.

"You were out cold again when I came back from talking to his dad. None of us could wake you, not even Deaton. So we left you like that."

_ Crap, they saw me holding his hand. Think up a good lie. Easy Derek, deep breath, steady your heart. There we go. _ "Thought a familiar presence would help rouse him. Guess my hand's not familiar enough." Derek rubbed his shoulders hoping the action would lend an air of nonchalance to the lie he'd just told.

"Maybe you should have just kissed Sleeping Beauty there. Might have worked faster," Scott chuckled.

"I don't think he'd appreciate that from me." Derek's heart broke a little at the admission, and he failed to see the incredulous eyebrow Scott raised at him. Regardless, Derek felt Stiles' forehead, actually hoping to find it febrile. "So, what did Deaton find out?"

"Dunno," Scott shrugged, "he was up all night researching in his office. He seemed like he had some theories, but to confirm them, he needs to talk to Stiles. ”

Suddenly, as if drawn from his slumber by the sound of his own name, Stiles winced as he stirred.

 

 

  
  


Stiles blinked, and with confusion, stared up at the lights. No wait, the sun was out. Daytime? How long- He could hear other people in the room with him, but didn't acknowledge them. Instead, he burrowed deeper into the blankets on top of him, pulling them from his shoulders to his chin. To his surprise, the first person to come into his field of vision was not Scott, but Derek. The man looked terrible, as if he'd been up all night. Then, Stiles remembered Derek had been standing right next to him when he defended them against the witch's spell. Oh shit. What had it done to Derek?

He licked his lips. Dry, much too dry. More pressing than chap stick, however, was the pull he felt to the man sitting next to him. Worse than usual, and that was entirely due to that whole being in love with him thing, the feeling tugged at him, almost like a command. What the hell?

He groaned.

 

 

 

 

 

"Oh thank God." Derek's body sagged in relief to hear the noise. He stood and looked down at Stiles, but the relief turned sour quickly, when those warm brown irises he'd wanted to lose himself in for a while now, flickered and flashed a brilliant green.

"What?" Stiles groaned weakly.

"Your eyes."

The commotion drew Deaton from his office.

Stiles rubbed his forehead. "They green?" Derek nodded. "Yeah, they do that. Um..." He shifted and tried to sit up.

"Hey, careful there," Derek gripped Stiles' torso and helped him to a seated position. The blanket, which had been covering the guy's chest, fell away, and Stiles shivered. Without missing a beat, Derek draped the fallen throw around his shoulders. "How's that?" He tried not to stare and the bare skin in front of him but failed. Instead, he wrapped the blanket tightly around Stiles, and they shared a glance of understanding. He'd covered him up last night, because he thought that if Stiles had gone through so much trouble to hide from the pack, he had a good reason to, and exposing his marks for everyone to see seemed like an invasion of privacy Derek did not look forward to taking advantage of.

Stiles gave Derek a crooked, but weak grin. "I, um, I can't be in water too long. I get... I lose all my energy. So with the rain and the lake-"

"Do you know what you are?" Derek asked.

Stiles nodded. "Yeah, I'm djinn," he and Deaton both said in unison.

Scott's jaw hung open in shock, but it was Isaac to break the silence. "Like three wishes?"

He shrugged. "Guess so. I haven't figured that part out yet. Mostly, it's been a lot of trial and error. It's not like the powers came with an instruction manual."

Scott seemed taken aback by this statement. "And the one who turned you didn't teach-"

  
  


 

 

 

Stiles stared at him a moment, insult and disgust set into his features. "You don't get turned into a djinni. You just...are." He swayed on the table; residual effects of the water had left him drained, and when Derek hopped up onto the table to sit beside him, where he let Stiles lean into him, he tried not to let it show how much the action affected him. That pull, what did that mean? "I mean, from what I've been able to dig up."

"I take it," Deaton started, "that this was an unexpected change."

"Yeah. Turned eighteen, and suddenly," he gestured to his chest, "this happened. It's my mom's fault, I mean not her fault like she cheated on my dad or anything, and the first person to crack a joke about that, I am sending you through the wall. Somehow she got some wishes, but didn't really realize it. All three backfired. Get told you can't have kids and wish for one, you get a djinni."

Deaton set down the book and looked at both of them. "Your tattoos are, in a way, your rules and regulations as a djinni. Each of the djinn's markings is different, and we'll need to translate them. If I could get pictures of them, I can start researching."

Instinctively, Stiles wrapped the blanket tighter around himself. "I'm not an exhibit, Deaton. I don't want people I've never met- you're not taking pictures. No offense Doc, but your Obi Wan vibe is off-putting. It makes me self-conscious."

"What if... I took them for you?" Derek looked over at him in earnest. "I mean it could just be me there, and not a whole group of people."

Stiles considered his offer. "Can I just set up my camera at home and take them myself?"

Derek rolled his eyes. "Come on. Let's go. I'll be quick about it."

Without giving the words a second thought, Stiles hopped off the counter and followed Derek to the door.

Deaton watched them closely for a moment, his features set a way that said he knew more than he was saying. He stuck out his arm and placed his hand on Derek's chest to prevent his exit. Stiles flinched as if readying for a fight. "That's what I thought. Derek do me a favor. Go sit back down, and get Stiles to join you."

Derek furrowed his brows in suspicion. Still, he obliged and sat down, patting the space next to him on the table. "Just do what he says, Stiles. Sit."

Putting up no fight, Stiles complied.

"Just so I am certain on this, Derek you're the one who saved Stiles from the water, yes?"

"Yeah." Stiles' head turned towards him so fast, Derek thought the guy's head would snap off.

 

 

 

 

"You saved my life?" Stiles felt his eyes water, and he swallowed. He broke eye contact with him. Of course. Of course that pull he felt towards him couldn't be reciprocated feelings or anything. No, it had to be magically related. Fuck this shit, fuck all that was his life. "Really? You know that means I owe you right?" He was determined not to cry, but his resolve was fading fast.

"How many times have you saved my life now?"

Stiles shook his head. "This is different. I owe you. I have no choice in the matter. I owe you a life debt." He'd done extensive research on the djinn, okay? Life debt was mentioned more than once.

"I don't understand."

Deaton showed him the page in the book he'd been using for research. "I was monitoring you all night, and Stiles seemed to be drawing power from you to heal himself. Do you feel different at all?"

The man had a point. "I feel like I do before lightning strikes. Like the air is static charged, but it's in my body not on my skin."

"That would be the debt Stiles is talking about."

Derek rubbed his temples. "And what does that mean?"

"In short? You are the owner of your own djinni. You get three wishes, but also have him at your disposal indefinitely."

Derek growled. "I don't own him. He's not property." He jumped down from the table and stormed out.

Stiles, though clearly upset, followed him out after a minute. When he tapped on the passenger window of Derek's SUV, the man jumped.

"What are you-"

"You told me to come with you. So I have to come with you." H e climbed into the passenger seat

  
  


 

 

Derek gripped the wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. "That's not what I-"

"I'm sorry you've been saddled with this burden and that you didn't ask for it. Well, I didn't ask for you to save my life, but I am grateful you did. So, I will try my best to be a good djinni." Stiles stared down at his hands.

In fact, Stiles hadn't met his eye since the guy realized he was indebted to him. It was as though in that moment, his whole demeanor had changed. It was similar to an alpha/beta relationship, but Stiles had gone completely subservient next to him. His posture sagged a little, and he'd shrunken in on himself.

Derek didn't like it.

"You don't have to act like a servant, okay?" When Stiles simply nodded at him, Derek groaned in frustration. "Look at me." When Stiles complied, he made sure he had the man's attention. "I don't own you, Stiles. You're not a slave."

  
  
  
  


 


	12. Beautiful, Just Like the Rest of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> Scene 2: "Deathbeds"- Bring Me the Horizon

When Derek turned off the engine, Stiles groaned. "Why are we here?" He was not looking forward to explaining everything to his dad. Too much had happened in the last eighteen hours or so, and he didn't even know where to begin. "Can't I save this until we figure the specifics of this life debt crap?"

Derek rolled his eyes. "Just go-" He paused. "I really think you should go in and talk to him. He's your father, and he's probably worried about you. If you really don't want to talk to him, then don't."

Stiles stared at him. "Did you- Did you just reword your command?"

"Yes. Now are you going to talk to him?"

With an exaggerated huff, Stiles opened the car door. "You can come in, you know."

"I don't think that's a good idea. Don't feel like being threatened before nine a.m."

"Oh come on. You know my dad is not going to-" When he looked over at Derek face, he saw the expression that said, 'Can you think of no reason why he might?' "Good point."

Stiles disappeared into the house. "Hey Dad, you still up?" He rounded the corner to see his dad sitting, bleary eyed, at the dining room table. Before he could say another word, he found himself wrapped in a crushing hug. John pulled back and cupped Stiles' chin, turning his face side to side as though he were inspecting for damage, the same way he'd done after...Gerard. _ Wow, I have really not made things easy on him _ . "I'm fine. Honestly, exhausted, but otherwise fine, I think."

"About that. You mind telling me why I received a phone call from Scott in the middle of my shift last night telling me everything had been taken care of only to get another two hours later telling me you'd been thrown off the cliff into the lake and were unconscious when Derek pulled you from the water? Oh, and then he informs me you are hypothermic and unresponsive. Are you trying to give me a heart attack? I mean, first I find out you're smoking-"

"Dad, just wait here, okay? I swear I will tell you everything. I just need to get something. Five minutes." Stiles hurried up to his room and grabbed his mom's diary, some of his research, and whittling supplies. He took in his appearance in the mirror, and it looked like he hadn't slept in years which given his reduced need for sleep, was quite odd. Downstairs, he set the items on the table.

"Son, what is all this stuff? Have you taken up black magic?"

"No." Stiles licked his lips. "I am...not exactly what you think I am. You know, Scott's a werewolf, Lydia's a banshee, and I've always been just Stiles, the human? Well, it turns out that's not true." He slid his mother's journal across the table. "Read the sections I flagged." He waited, watching his dad and the expressions the words drew out of him. "What do you know about the djinn?"

  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Stiles shivered at the chilliness of Derek's loft. It was as though ever since he'd gone into the water, he could not warm up. Derek noticed this right away and turned up the heat in the room and gave him a blanket. "So, if you really don't want me to take the pictures for you, I can help you set up the camera, and then I'll leave."

"No, it's okay. I guess."

"And um, if I say something that turns out to be a command or an order even if I don't mean it to, and you don't want to follow it, tell me. I'll reword it or do what I need to in order to fix that." Stiles nodded, his eyes fixed on the floor. "But follow this one though, okay? Stop being so meek  and docile. Be the smart-mouthed guy who doesn't listen. You're not a beta. Be you."  _ Be the Stiles I know and love.  _ He watched Stiles relax in front of him.

Stiles gave a soft chuckle. "Thank you."

Derek's eyebrows rose so fast, it was as though they were trying to flee. "You were waiting for me to say that, weren't you?"

"Yeah. Look you all may not like the personality change that came with _ this _ ," Stiles gestured to his torso, "but I like feeling powerful, confident. I like feeling...present, but all that came with the powers. The subtle changes to my appearance, those were my choice, especially the plaid. I don't know; it just started to feel like a cage." He nodded. "But um, it's fine for you to take the pictures, and thank you for not letting Deaton do it. I don't know; I've just _ never _ trusted that guy. He always seems like he's holding back information."

"But you trust me?"

Stiles licked his lips. "Yeah, I do. I'm not sure why. You don't even really like me, and I'm pretty sure you're only nice to me for Sc-"

 

 

 

  
  


"I do not tolerate you for Scott's sake. It would be nice if you would stop thinking that. Should we take these pictures or not?" He pointed to the window, and in no time had the camera ready. He was just about ready to give his speech how Stiles could use a blanket to cover whatever part of himself that wasn't being photographed, when the guy shucked his shirt and tossed it on the couch. Derek felt his mouth go dry now that he had an open invitation to look.

"If you give me a minute, I can make them brighter, I just...need to do something first." He grabbed his medwakh and some dokha from his jacket pocket and disappeared up to the roof.

When the room was finally empty, Derek let out the breath he'd been holding. How the hell was he going to get through this without embarrassing himself? For all that he'd told Cora about Stiles being perfect the way he was...now...fuck. He heard the door shut above him.

"So, I thought this might make them easier to see."

Several minutes later, h e looked up to see Stiles coming down the spiral staircase, tattoos glowing a brighter green. _ Staring is not polite, Derek _ . Still, he couldn't stop himself from looking. They captivated him, and with the brilliant green irises, it was like he was seeing Stiles for the first time.

"I know; they're pretty freaky."

Derek shook his head. What should he say about them? They were beautiful, made Stiles more beautiful? No, he couldn't be so bold, though he was finding it harder to hold his tongue about his feelings. Eventually, he knew they would spill over and out his mouth. Instead of saying a damn thing, he picked up the camera and started, first with large full shots of Stiles' back and chest. Then, because Stiles pointed out that some sections are quite complex, he took close ups. The proximity caused quite a problem for him. He could feel the heat radiating off Stiles' skin, could smell the remaining hint of smoke overlaying Stiles' scent, and both only made Derek want him more. Hell, he could even feel that stupid life debt practically arcing below the skin, the one he was sure would hinder any attempt at a relationship between them. Because how could he say what he needed to without ever resorting to a plea or request. He realized immediately that he could just tell Stiles that they should be together, and they would be.

The thought made him sick to his stomach.

“Um, Derek?” Stiles snapped his fingers in front of Derek's face. “You still with me?”

Derek shook his head to clear the cobwebs. "Sorry. Could you lift your right arm, so I can see your side?" The very bottom of the tattoo seemed to extend beneath the waistband of Stiles' pants, and Derek swore if he had to ask Stiles to take off his pants in order to finish, he was going to lose it. As it stood, it was taking every ounce of control to keep his mind of Stiles' dick. "Um, do your- are they only on your torso, you know not lower?"

Stiles smirked. "What's the matter? Worried about seeing my dick? No. What you see is what-" He noticed where Derek had been photographing. "Oh yeah, that one goes about an inch lower." Stiles rolled down the band of his sweatpants. "That's it."

Derek pressed the button. "I'm finished. I guess you can send them to Deaton now." He handed over the camera, turning to make a hasty retreat to somewhere else where he couldn't make an ass out of himself. To his surprise though, Stiles caught his arm.

"Wait. Do you... want to see what else I can do? Some of it is really cool."

To be honest, he hadn't even considered what else being a djinni entailed.

Stiles licked his lips, staring at Derek with wide and hopeful eyes. "I, um, haven't shown anyone else, and I ’ve really been dying to ."

"Yes." His response came out in a barely audible rasp; he'd be the first person to see this. It felt like an honor, and maybe it was. Maybe it was more than that. "I'd like that a lot." He watched Stiles walk behind the kitchen counter and wondered just what in the hell Stiles was planning. Suddenly, Stiles disappeared. Could the djinn teleport? His question was answered almost instantly, when a large bird, a falcon flew up onto the counter, perching upon it. "Stiles?" To his surprise, the bird moved its head. It looked as though it was nodding .  "You can shape shift?" Again the bird nodded, this time leaving its head bowed. When Derek didn't act, Stiles hopped forward and dipped his head once more. At this point, Derek admitted Stiles had him stumped. He approached the counter, where Stiles shuffled up to him, poking at his hand with his talons, not hard, just enough to get him to react. As soon as he lifted his hand, Stiles ducked his head underneath Derek's hand and rubbed against his palm. Oh. Stiles had wanted Derek to touch him.

  
  


 

 

 

Seriously? It took all that for him to get through to Derek? If he'd been in human form, Stiles would have cracked a joke about dense werewolves. As it stood though, he couldn't be annoyed, especially not when Derek ran his fingers down his feathers. Stiles had wondered how it would feel for someone to do that, and honestly, his imagination didn't do the feeling justice. However, he did not like how close Derek got to his tail-feathers and jumped away.

Derek chuckled. "Point made. Stay away from your tail."

Stiles kind of wanted to stay in this form for a long time. This, having Derek rub his feathers, felt like a hug. It was just easier to be like this  than to come out and say, "I'm in love with you, you obtuse lycanthrope! Isn't it obvious? Couldn ’t you smell it? " Still, he did not want to push his boundaries and flitted off the counter to shift back. Thankfully, Derek did pick up on his actions this time and stepped back from the counter.

"So, I've also been able to figure out a snake and a jackal. It's kind of too bad you can't shift full wolf like your sister could. Be fun to go for a run I imagine." He looked up after tugging back on his socks. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Derek just gave him a little smile. "Yeah, that is too bad. I always wanted to go running with her like that, my mom too."

_ You didn't answer my question. Nice deflection, Dude. _

"Can you show me something else? Like what was that you did to the witch?"

Stiles scratched his eyebrow. "To be honest, that was a wing and a prayer. I knew I was doing something defensive, but as for what it did- luck, Derek, pure luck. I don ’t know if I could do it without a threat ."

"That smoke though, with your fingers?'

"Oh that. I can show you, but I need to get the room a bit smoky. Are you- is that going to make you uncomfortable?" Would it? Would a smoky room remind him of the fire? Only one way to find out.

Derek swallowed hard. "I don't know, but I want to see it." Stiles pointed to a stool at the counter, a gesture which said, 'please sit'.

"I can do this a few ways. I bring out the hookah, which is pretty tasty, or candles. Incense would be fastest."

"Whichever way you want is fine. I can be patient."

Stiles grinned and set up his hookah, pulling up a stool on the other side of the counter.  “Just- if you need me to stop and air out the room, tell me.”

Derek nodded. “Okay. Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

"Why me?"

"What do you mean?" He asked, lighting the charcoal.

"Why am I the first person you're showing this too, and not Scott, not your dad?"

Stiles shrugged. It would be so easy to just confess things. The rapport they had going that afternoon felt safe, yet tense. "Maybe I thought you'd appreciate it best. My dad, didn't say much when I told him, just kind of sat there  with a look of ‘Wait, now there are djinn to worry about. I’m done. So done.’ on his face. You," he swallowed, "you've always been what you are. You never saw the bite as anything but a gift. I guess I just thought that you, out of everyone, would understand me." He brought the hose to his lips and inhaled, letting the smoke settle and awaken whatever part of him from which his power originated. He leaned his head back and exhaled a spinning ring of smoke and did not hear the strangled gasp Derek made at the sight of it.

"And the smoking...is it bad for _ you _ ?"

"Aww didn't know you cared, Derek." He laughed as Derek scowled at him. "I don't actually know. I don't think it would be. I'm essentially a smoke being anyway. It actually makes me feel stronger." After several minutes of smoking more, Stiles turned to him. "How are my eyes? My markings? They glowing yet?" When Derek shook his head, Stiles grabbed the incense and holders and placed them around them. He waited after lighting the first to see if Derek showed any signs of it bothering him before lighting the others.

Derek shifted on his stool. "Why did you say I would understand you? Is that why you didn't tell any of us? We wouldn't have turned our backs on you. I mean, I wouldn't have. I'd like to think that holds true for everyone else."

"I was ashamed of the markings for a while. I felt ugly, but once I figured out this skill I'm trying to show you, I just accepted it, I guess." Finally, he felt the electricity crackle through his body. He took another drag off his hose and held the smoke in his lungs for a while, letting it build. He winked at Derek and blew the smoke into his hand, wiggling his fingers to make the smoke dance. Then he rolled it over his knuckles, sent little wisps of it at Derek, not defensively ( g od no, what kind of a jerk would that make him?), but playfully.

Then, when he'd built up enough, he sent the smoke swirling around him, just like he had that night in his room. He felt like a hurricane every time he tried this. The feeling, well he'd never be able to describe it for anyone. It would always belong to him, and him alone. Before he let himself dissolve into smoke, he made sure to take in Derek's expression, which was...awestruck? No, that wasn't it either. Enrapt?

"Wow." Derek gasped.

"Just wait." Stiles let himself shift, and judging by the shocked expression on his face, Derek was not expecting him to be able to do this. Stiles curled his smoke around Derek's neck like an embrace, wondering what it felt like to be on the receiving end of the attention. He let his arm ( w ell, Stiles knew it was his arm, Derek would only see it as a plume of smoke) rest on Derek's shoulders before brushing his forehead with a wisp. Stiles hoped it felt like the kiss it was. When he pulled away, he was finally able to put his finger on the word he'd been looking for. Enamored.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. What? How the ever loving fuck did he miss that?

He had to have misread th e expression. It was the only explanation that made sense to him. It wouldn’t be the first time Stiles read too much into the little looks someone else cast his way. Story of his life so far: Stiles Stilinski, Master Mien Misinterpreter, coming soon to a theater near you.

Quickly , before he could mentally self-destruct , Stiles sailed across the room to where he'd left the blanket Derek had given him, shifting back where he wrapped the blanket tightly around his waist as he plotted his exit. At the counter, he hurried to extinguish and pack up his supplies.

"You're amazing. I hope you can see that." Derek couldn't keep it in anymore.

"Amazing now, sure." He worried the inside of his bottom lip between his teeth.

 

 

 

  
  


"And you weren't before?" With tentative fingers, Derek reached towards Stiles chest, waiting for Stiles to back away, sighing in relief when he didn't. He held Stiles' gaze as his fingers met Stiles' skin. The tattoos were warmer than the rest of his skin, and just the act of tracing one of them with his fingers sent his heart hammering in his chest. "They're beautiful. Just like the rest of you." Derek swallowed the lump in his throat. "I didn't skip your party. I was late, because I was too nervous." He cupped the back of Stiles' head. "I kept imagining I heard your heartbeat outside my door at night after that. You were never there." He let his free hand rest on the bare skin of Stiles' waist. "I know this life debt sucks, but not going in after you, is something I don't- I'd do it again, make the same choice every time. The alternative...I couldn't handle that." He glanced at Stiles' mouth, longing with every fiber of his being to feel it against his own.

Then, Stiles surged forward, crashing his lips into Derek's.

The firm but gentle pressure of Stiles lips on his felt like safety and freedom, and fuck if he didn't want to live in that moment. Sweet baby Jesus, it was better than he'd ever fantasized. He dropped his other hand to join its partner at Stiles' waist, pulling him tightly against his body, savoring the way he fit like he belonged there. He kissed along his jaw, trailing kisses and stubble down Stiles' neck.

Just as quickly as he'd started the kiss, Stiles pushed away, covering his mouth in a panic. "I...um..." He hurried to gather his things, leaving the loft in a flurry of activity.

Confused and honestly a little concerned, Derek sat down on his couch. Stiles kissed him first. Was he not supposed to kiss back? All he'd done was try and confess his feelings, and even then, he'd barely scratched the surface. It wasn't like he didn't want Stiles to kiss him. Hell, it was pretty much all he'd wanted at that- Oh fuck.

Derek dropped his head into his hands. The life debt nonsense had just become a lot more complicated and painful

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 


	13. But I'm Used to How This Feels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Scene three contains the mutual magical dubcon/noncon (See note at end of chapter). Stiles also has panic attack (description is minor) in scene one
> 
> Track Listing:  
> Scene One: “You Rascal You”- Hanni El Khatib  
> Scene Three: “Sexual Hallucination”- In This Moment

Stiles threw his backpack into the passenger seat with a huff. How the hell did he get a D on that paper? He actually stayed on topic and thought its thesis to be well thought out and thoroughly researched. He'd proofread the thing eight times...out loud. "High school will be the best years of your life," he said in a mocking tone, imitating all those magazines and other publications that had been forced down his throat in middle school as a way to entice kids to stay in school. Well, he had three words to say to that: Yeah fucking right.

Even before Scott had been bitten, Stiles had been languishing. Barely controlled ADHD screwed him over freshman year, and even after an adjustment to his Adderall dosage, he was only marginally better. Then came Harris, the asshole. Stiles was pretty sure taking out the grudge you had against a student's parent on said student was not only unethical but violated some kind of no-discrimination clause in the man's teaching contract. Fat lot of good that did. He'd barely passed chemistry, and not for lack of trying.

Then Peter...fucking peter. _ You made my life worse, if you can believe that, you bastard. _ Stiles blinked a few times, trying to refocus, sort of  get  out of the negative head space in which he currently found himself. It didn't work. His mind kept pouring over every little thing that had seemingly gone wrong since then, which was a lot. In fact, more had gone wrong than had gone right, and he couldn't remember the last time he felt relaxed or hell, even safe.

He was being unnecessarily hard on himself. He knew he was. It was kind of hard not to be right then. For all the praise he received for being smart, clever, he still had no positive response from a single one of the colleges to which he'd applied. He was up to fifteen 'No, we're sorry. Despite your decent SAT scores and GPA, your lack of extra-curricular accolades and community service is just not what we're looking for. We wish you luck in your endeavors' now and out over $600 in wasted application fees. Lack of community service? His whole fucking life was dedicated to the community service  of keeping this fucking town from sinking into the supernatural Hellmouth it apparently sat upon.

Scott \-- bless his simplistic morals and good heart \--h ad two colleges looking into him, which though he loved the guy, pissed Stiles off. Scott had almost failed sophomore year, and even _ he _ had been accepted to college. Fucking werewolf perks and athletic scholarships. Stiles clenched and unclenched his fists trying to calm himself down, to no avail. Why couldn't this djinni shit come online earlier so he could take advantage of it that way Scott had  done with  his powers. For all the guy seemed to hate about being a werewolf, he sure reaped the benefits of it.

Before Stiles realized it, the school parking lot had all but emptied while he wallowed. He backed out of his assigned space and started for home, where thanks to a text from his dad before the man went to work, he knew he had letters from two colleges waiting for him. Stiles didn't feel excited about them.

Halfway home however, he noticed a dark SUV driving behind him. Come to think of it, Stiles was pretty sure the thing had been there since he'd left the school parking lot. To test his theory, he added extra turns through residential streets to his route home, figuring that the fact the car still traveled behind him was a coincidence. When that failed to  lose his vehicular tail, Stiles pulled down his street and drove straight past his house.

"Just great, just what I fucking need." Stiles felt like punching the steering column to wail on the horn, but thought better of it. Instead, he drove back through town, winding his way through downtown streets.

At first, he just assumed he was being paranoid. Years of dealing with the supernatural and the occasional human zealot that came along could do that to a guy. Hell, he was just glad he hadn't been committed ye- oh wait … Forcing down that line of thinking, lest it  turn him into an emotional basket case for the next twelve hours, he turned into the drive-thru at Wendy's. He needed junk food, and though curly fries would have tasted amazing, the only Arby's in town was in the opposite direction of his amended destination. He also got his dad a grilled chicken sandwich.

As soon as he pulled back onto the street, he noticed that same damn SUV. "Well somebody failed to read the 'How to follow someone and not get noticed' handbook." He tried to hide his apprehension behind snark, but to tell the truth, with every  new turn through town failing to shake the Jeep's shadow, he began to panic. It was just the wrong damn day for him to deal with this shit.

Fifteen minutes later, he turned into the Sheriff's station, relieved to find his dad's cruiser in the parking lot. Sparing no extra time, he grabbed the sack containing their dinners and his backpack and booked it into the building. Inside the doors, he took a shuddering breath and composed himself as best as he could. With shaky knuckles and a lightheadedness he knew to be from his shallow breathing as he tried to stave off the impending panic attack, he rapped on the door to his dad's office before entering to find the man on the phone, his back to the door.

Stiles dropped the food on the desk and collapsed into the chair, his head in his hands. He knew he should have waited for his dad's okay before coming in. The phone call could have been confidential, but Stiles' knees were in danger of buckling. How he managed to devolve into a crippling panic attack and still remain silent, he'd never know.

Ten minutes later, John hung up the phone and turned to face Stiles, who still sat there shaking. "Are you okay, son?"

Stiles, unable to speak for the lump and bile in his throat, simply shook his head.

"Are you hurt?" Stiles shook his head. "Did something happen?"

"I...I..." He took as deep a breath as he could. "Someone followed me. I was freaking out about a bad grade I got, and no colleges wanting to accept me, and still being a total mess, and things are never going to change for me, fretting over being jealous of how wolf powers helped everyone in the pack get something they want, but I'm still over here finally able to concentrate on shit, but it's too little too late for any of it to matter, and so I sat in the school parking lot until it was almost empty when I left." He gasped. "Then I noticed a dark SUV following me, so I couldn't go home, and I drove through a bunch of residential streets, and then through town, but I couldn't lose them, and why would someone follow _ me _ , me of all people if they didn't have ulterior motives?"

_ Holy run on sentences, Batman. _

"Are you sure?"

"Dad, they followed me through the drive-thru at Wendy's." He tried to articulate with his hands just how sure he was, but stopped when he saw them trembling. He tucked them under his legs. "Could you just...check out the license plate, please? I mean, if it was enough to get me this upset, it has to be worth a look." He jotted down the plate number and passed the sticky note to his dad.

"I'll see what I can do." John opened the bag of fast food and nodded. "You must have been upset. You got me french fries."

"Call it an oversight of an anxious mind. I need to go home and face those rejection letters, but-"

John munched on a bite of his sandwich. "Come on now, Stiles. You don't know they're rejection letters."

Stiles laughed, but in reality it sounded more like a barking wheeze. _ Attractive, Stiles. Real attractive. _ "Fifteen, Dad. Fifteen wastes of my time so far." He looked up at the ceiling. He was three months away from graduating, and had no idea what he was going to do afterward. He could see it now, stuck living at home until he was thirty, waiting tables at the diner in town, because apparently he was toxic to higher education. "I don't get it."

John sat down in the empty chair next to him. "One of those letters is an acceptance letter. I can feel it."

"And if it isn't, and no school wants me? What am I supposed to do?"

John patted his son's knee. "Then you take a year off, take some classes at the community college, keep trying at it. Stiles, you're very intelligent and have for the most part, aside from chemistry, good grades. Somewhere, there is a college that would be lucky to have you as a student." Stiles gave him a weak smile. "Now, you said you need to go home? Pack night tonight, right?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want me to have Parrish tail you home, make sure you aren't followed again? It wouldn't be any trouble; it's been quiet today."

"Thanks, Dad." He stood and gave the man a hug. While he waited for Parrish to bring his cruiser around front, Stiles wished he could say he felt any better about it; he didn't.

  
  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Stiles jolted awake from where he'd dozed off on the couch. "Shit!" The pack night started in ten minutes. Honestly, when he'd turned on  _ Jeopardy _ , he'd firmly intended to take in the bit of nostalgia he got any time he watched it. Instead, apparently, his tense afternoon had taken its toll.

Curious, he went up to his room to spare a glance out the window. Just because he'd received a police escort home, it did not mean the mysterious SUV hadn't followed farther behind. In fact, his suspicions proved correct as he squinted through the gap in the blinds to see the dark vehicle parked halfway down the block in front of Mrs. Carter's house. The elderly woman did not drive, and her son drove a motorcycle. The truck did not belong there.

"Damn it." He pulled his phone from the pocket of his jeans and dialed Derek, who answered on the second ring.

"Stiles."

"We really must work on your telephone greetings, D. So um, can you leave a window open enough for me to get through?"

"Yeah, but any particular reason why?"

"Long story short. I was followed as I left school all the way to the station. Despite Parrish tailing me on my way home, the SUV found my house. I don't want to lead whoever it is to your loft. Gonna fly over, and I will need to be able to get in." Stiles winced. "Can I maybe...you know..."

"I'll set out clothes for you. The usual fine?"

"Yeah, thanks. See ya soon." Stiles ended the call. Anxiety and agitation bubbled through his veins, and he really just needed half an hour to relax before going to the pack night. Unfortunately, thanks to his impromptu nap, he had no time, nor did he have the time to shift into smoke. Really, he must figure out how to make that faster. It would come in handy eventually.

Instead, he climbed the stairs and opened the window in the guest room. Since it faced the back yard, it was probably safest. He shed his clothes and shifted, hopping up onto the sill. Ideally, he'd be able to spread his wings first before making the leap of the ledge, but nothing about the day had been ideal. With a great push, he flew off to Derek's.

Since he would need to cross his street, and presumably fly near the SUV, he set off in the opposite direction of the loft so that it did not look like he came from his house, cutting back towards his block. By the time he crossed the street, he was at least a hundred feet in the air. From below, he could be just any bird. That's what he hoped at least. Besides, he could make a direct route, darting in between buildings and trees in a way his vehicular shadow could not.

His luck held out, and he arrived at Derek's without being followed. Stiles zipped through the open window and found several members of the pack had already shown up. Isaac, startled by Stiles appearance, flailed and fell off the couch.

"Holy shit! There's a giant ass bird in your living room, Derek! Get the broom; I'll shoo it out!"

 

 

  
  


Without so much as a glance in his direction, Derek called out from the kitchen. "Hey, Stiles. I set a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants in the bathroom for you. The door should be open so you can fly in without needing to shift." Derek stirred the giant pot of spaghetti he'd been working on and looked up to see Stiles perched on the far counter. For a moment, he considered making a smart remark about how it was unsanitary for him to be in the kitchen, but the look on the bird's face told him not to.

He'd never put a lot of thought into the facial expressions of animals other than dogs, but over the last couple weeks ( e ver since that kiss Derek was now completely convinced he made happen by some kind of silent command- the one neither one of them dared talk about), Stiles had flown over a couple times a week. Even as a bird, the guy had large eyes that seemed to convey every emotion he refused to voice. "You okay?"

Stiles shook his head and stared at him.

Derek understood, turned off the stove and gestured to the bathroom with his head. "Go on. I'll come back in a couple minutes." He waited for Stiles to fly away. "Dinner's ready. Come and get it! I swear if no one leaves me any food this time, I am _ never _ making dinner for you all again!" As the rest of the pack dug into the pasta, Derek trod towards his bathroom and let his knuckles rap softly on the door. "You good?"

"Yeah, you can come in."

Derek swallowed hard. Despite the fact this was not the first time he'd seen Stiles in his clothes, he still felt his heart fluttered at the sight of him, wearing them like he fucking belonged in them. Sensing Stiles was about to break down in a babbling mess of run-on sentences and incoherent thoughts, Derek held a finger to his lips. Then, he turned on the tap and the shower, closing the door behind him; he hoped it would be enough to drown out their conversation from the rest of the pack.

Instead of spewing out his words in a stream of consciousness deluge that would put James Joyce to shame, Stiles took a couple steps towards him and let his head drop to Derek's shoulder. The action caught him off guard, but Derek recovered quickly and let one hand rest on the back of his neck where it applied a firm but gentle pressure. He wasn't sure why he'd done that. It was just something his mother used to do when any of the wolves in the pack seemed to have difficulty staying in control in a given moment. Luckily though, it worked, because Derek felt some of the tension bleed out of Stiles shoulders as the guy told him about his ordeal that afternoon.

"I'm afraid. They followed me. I know they did, and they either want to take me or use me to get to the rest of you. How do they even know about me? On the outside, I am unremarkable. When you look at me, do you see some kind of aura, anything that would give me away?"

Unremarkable? Quite the contrary really, but Derek knew Stiles wasn't fishing for compliments in that moment, just an open ear. "I don't see one, even using wolf eyes. If they want you, I don't know how they found out. Maybe it's like with the witches, a spell." He felt his phone buzz in his pocket and retrieved it. "Deaton has some of your tattoos deciphered."

"Yeah?"

"It appears to just be my half of the 'rules'." Derek pulled up the email. "He calls them 'The Master/Wish Holder Rules.'" And hell if Derek's heart didn't break a little when Stiles whimpered at the wording. "Yeah, I know. I don't like it either. Do you...do you want me to read them?" He waited for Stiles to nod into his shoulder before continuing. "'Rule One: No wish may be done that will result directly or in an indirect way in the death of another.' Got to say, I agree with that. I would never ask you to kill for me even without this silly life debt."

Stiles smirked. "Never thought you would."

"Glad I amuse you. 'Number Two: No wish may change the natural order of life thus bringing a deceased being back to life.' Agree with that."

"Yeah, Peter is a shining example of why no one should  _ ever  _ be brought back to life."

When Stiles full on laughed at his own joke, Derek smiled. "That's better. Onto the third one. 'Number Three: No wish may bring harm to any living being. This includes any wish that affects the Djinni.' Guess I'll be doing my own dirty work. I'm fine with that. 'Number Four: No wish can start a major political movement that results in a war.' Can't say I ever wanted that."

"What? You have no aspirations to wage a full on Werewolf Crusade? Gotta say I'm a little disappointed."

Chuckling, Derek shook his head. "Number Five: The Master/Wish Holder bears all responsibility for any after effects of any wish, herein indemnifying the Djinni from any consequence or lawful prosecution.' Well that sounds like a great thing for you."

"Who doesn't love a 'Get out of jail free' card?"

"There's one more." Derek read it to himself first; his chest felt heavy. "'Number Six: No wish may affect the free will of others. This excludes the Djinni.' Listen- Damn..." Derek reformed his statement in his head. "I meant what I said two weeks ago. Would you let me know if something I say comes out as a command? I don't want to make you do anything, except maybe talk less on occasion. You're my friend; I don't want that kind of power over you. It ’s not right. How about we go on out to the living room before they start coming up with their own scenarios?" Instead of answering him, Stiles shifted. "That kind of day?"

Stiles rubbed his head against Derek's leg in agreement, his sandy colored fur going askew at the contact.

The pack already had  Terminator playing by the time the two of them walked into the living room. Isaac looked up at Derek. "So Stiles can shift? Into a bird?"

Derek shrugged. He'd been doing research too, intending to take his role in said life debt very seriously. "Djinn can shapeshift."

"And you just knew it was him because..."

He gave Isaac a playful shove and took the available seat near the arm of the couch. Scott, however, looked a bit insulted. "He told you all this? He hasn't said a word to me about anything." Scott looked over at Stiles, who had curled up on the floor by Derek's feet. "Now you have him sitting at your feet like he's your pet or something."

"Really, Scott?" Derek stared at him, less than amused. "Got something to say?"

"I mean you're pretty much in control of him because of that stupid debt. Who knows what you'll ha-"

"Stop. Just stop. I resent your implication.”

“ Derek, I’m just looking out for my friend.”

"Well, it's pissing me off."

From the corner where Peter preferred to spend every pack night, the man spoke up. "Funny you should say something like that. How is Derek's situation any different that you being an alpha? Use your alpha voice, make Isaac dance or something." Scott just stared at him. "See. Not much different. And anyway, if you'd bother to learn your werewolf history beyond what Doctor Vague tells you, you'd hesitate to suggest something like that."

Derek groaned. "Peter, what good does telling him about that do?"

Peter smirked. "This is for your benefit, Derek. I'm sure after he hears the story, he'll change his mind about how you're treating Stiles. He'd understand why no wolf would willingly 'own' someone. Be a bit hypocritical don't you think?” He turned his attention to Scott. “By now, Scott, I am sure you are aware that not all hunters are like our acquaintance Mr. Argent. In fact, he's more decent than most, even the ones that follow the code. They didn't always kill us you know." He stood and paced around in that way Stiles called his 'Bond Villain Walk.' "They used to catch us, bind us in Wolfsbane laced collars, enslave us."

"Uh huh, sure they did," Isaac chuckled.

Derek shook his head. "No, he's actually telling the truth. I know, hard to believe."

"What?" Peter feigned shock. "I am nothing if not truthful. Anyway, they'd drug them with a specific Wolfsbane, and use them for their dirty work, have them kill their adversaries. Then, when they were no longer of use to them, they'd release them, feral, into the wild. Some well meaning, and probably code following hunter would come across this confused omega. Do you think for a second that the poor wolf's explanation mattered at all to them once they saw his blue eyes?"

Scott looked at both men like he could not believe such a story could be true. "They really did this?"

"Traded wolves around too. Dark history. Don't tell me this is unfathomable to you, Scott. These are the same people who hacked bodies in two with broadswords."

Scott turned away from Peter and looked at Derek. "I just don't want to see Stiles get hurt."

“ I got that, and I assure you, I have no intentions of doing so. Believe me; that's the last thing I want." Derek stared at Scott. "He's had a rough day. Who am I to tell him he can't watch a movie in jackal form? Stiles, do you want me to fill them in?" He waited for Stiles to poke his muzzle into his leg before explaining to the pack exactly why Stiles was in the form he was. "Look, it scared him, and if checking out from the human world for a while helps him feel better, then leave him alone. I'm also thinking we should stay alert. Maybe fill Argent in, so he can check things out from his end. Stiles is right though. Why would someone follow him if they didn't want either him, or to use him get to the pack? And if they're after him, how the hell did they figure out what he is?"

Scott nodded. "You're right. It's been quiet in town for far too long. I mean, aside from those witches. Remember when we were facing a threat constantly? Why did that just stop?"

Isaac raised his hand. "I'm okay that it just stopped."

Derek shifted on the couch to free up some space between himself and the arm of the couch. Then, he cast a pointed glance in Stiles' direction and another to the cushion beside him. Stiles took the hint and hopped up to squeeze in beside him, even going so far as to rest his furry little head on Derek's thigh.

As the movie played on, Derek, without realizing it, had begun carding his fingers through the fur on Stiles' head, paying special attention to his ears. Laura had been able to full shift, and she'd loved this on her bad days. Part of him acted on instinct, and the other? Affection, probably, but Stiles hadn't seemed to mind. In fact, he slept through most of the movie, not even waking when the rest of the pack left.

Afraid that moving would awaken him, Derek stayed in the same position, watching television for almost an hour after his loft emptied out. When Stiles finally roused, Derek grabbed a blanket from the back of the couch and tossed it over him. Look, just because he was, as a born wolf, comfortable in his skin, it did not mean Stiles shared the same sentiments about nudity as he did. Moments later, Stiles sat next to him in familiar form.

"Sorry I fell asleep on you."

"Don't be." Derek was pretty sure he blushed. "It was nice. Your um, your fur is soft."

  
  


  
  


  
  


Stiles patted his cheek. "Such a secret softie. Never you fear; I shan't tell a soul." Without even realizing it, he leaned forward and kissed Derek's forehead. "See ya later, Derek." It was only when he had shed his clothes and shifted, flying out into the night that he realized what he'd done. Well crap.

Despite his nap, he was still exhausted when he flew in the guest room window. After a shower, one of the fastest he'd ever taken in his life, he crashed into his bed with only a towel around his waist.

  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Derek tossed and turned in bed, deeply asleep but far from restful. His subconscious kept reminding him of the charge that simple kiss on the forehead sent down his spine. More. He wanted more, craved that feeling.

Every inch of his skin was on fire, alight with desire, had been since Stiles had left hours earlier. One word had hung on his lips as he watched him walk towards the door.

Stay.

He didn't say a damn word; fear of it coming out as a command instead of a question kept his lips from moving. Now, he was on edge, restless, mind alive in the fantasy world of his dreams in a way it had never been before. Derek didn't often get the pleasure of good dreams, usually succumbing to visions fraught with bad memories or evil imagery. That was his life, and he accepted it, but this- this was different.

 

_ The feel of Stiles' tongue dancing and darting against his was, at once, like every one of his fantasies come to life and like nothing he'd ever felt. The way  _ _Stiles_ _ smelled, the spice of the coriander, the sweetness of the brown sugar, and that woodsy smell of cedar and rain, flooded his senses.  _ _Derek_ _ couldn't get enough, but the way his lips tasted, the faint hint of spiced smoke which lie under everything, had  _ _him_ _ reeling. _

_ For all his innate werewolf grace, his hands still shook as they tugged down the zipper to Stiles' hoodie. He pushed the garment of his shoulders and yanked the white tee over Stiles' head. It was amazing how quickly Derek had come to love and crave a sight of those tattoos. Sparks, literal sparks, rolled into his tongue as he trailed it along the indelible lines along Stiles' collarbone. _

_ He couldn't believe they were actually doing this, and how they got to this point so fast, baffled him. One moment, just talking in hushed tones, and now, a frenzy of unresolved tension, passion. Derek felt like he was on fire in the best possible way, burning alive under the touch of Stiles' skin against his. _

 

Derek writhed in bed, seeking to gain some friction, some relief. His hands roamed over his sheets as though they were in search of a companion to join them, but there was none to be found. He was alone.

In the main living area of his loft, however, a window he'd neglected to close completely, only left open a crack, gave just enough room for a long wisp of green smoke to filter in. It carried through the space to the bedroom with purpose, finally settling in the air around Derek.

 

_ Derek arched his back when Stiles licked a long stripe up his abs to his chest, looking up at him through those impossible lashes. Fuck _ _!_ _ Derek thought he was beautiful. Stiles sucked a mark into his neck, and Derek tried so hard to keep it from healing right away. He wanted the reminder this actually happened, that he'd removed his head from his ass long enough to tell Stiles exactly how he felt, and those feelings were mutual. _

_ His hands came to rest on the small of Stiles' back where Derek held him tightly against his body, reveling in the feel, the weight of him pushing Derek into the mattress. He'd say he loved him, if his brain could form thought, but the sheer magnitude of everything at that moment was overwhelming, and he hoped his eyes said what his mouth couldn't. _

  
The hazy green smoke began to dissipate, shrink back down, until Stiles slowly came back into corporeal form. His eyes shone a brilliant green, his movements fluid and refined. Though he was back in human shape, smoke swirled around him like a maelstrom almost as though he forgot to turn it off, or, more likely, simply chose not to.

Where Derek's hands grasped for purchase in the sheets, Stiles pinned them to the bed, intertwining their fingers together and kissed him. Everything he tried to put into the kiss before, when he'd panicked and ran, was absent this time. Instead, the kiss was mechanical, devoid of emotion or feeling.

 

_ Derek's head spun. For all Stiles had complained about lack of experience, he'd been spot on about how his mouth was made for this. Derek rolled his hips in time with Stiles' motions. Honestly, he couldn't stop himself; Stiles lips were impossibly soft, like velvet around him. He wondered, if his hair, now free from all that product and worn a bit longer was just as soft. In one long motion, Stiles swallowed him down, and Derek lost it, thrusting up into  _ _Stiles’_ _ mouth. He  _ _started to_ _ apologize, but found Stiles had no trouble deepthroating. _

  
When Derek snapped his hips upward, even on autopilot, Stiles had been unprepared. He pulled off and spluttered, gasping for air.

 

_ Somewhere in the room, Derek heard coughing, but he could not place it. Then, he felt the gentlest touch against his lips, which made no sense, as Stiles' hands were both occupied elsewhere. Confusion took him out of the moment and... _

 

Derek's eyes fluttered open, and he found himself met with a pair of lips against his own. His initial grogginess gone, he pushed away from the enigma sharing his bed. Who in the hell would- Stiles? What was he doing here?

Oh no.

Derek felt his stomach drop, churning like a hurricane, and he fought not to be sick. All around Stiles, Derek could see wisps of smoke. He looked the way he did just before shifting, or just after, a whirlwind of mystical energy. Derek could feel the charge in the room. Moreover though, Stiles just stared at him, those swirling emerald eyes, hollow and unnerving. Stiles crawled towards him and tried to kiss him again.

"Stiles, stop!" To his relief, the colorful mist in the room disappeared, and Stiles' eyes went back to their usual brown.

It took a moment or two for  his eyes to refocus, but once they did, Stiles skittered back across the bed, ultimately falling on the floor. He pulled the blanket from the bed with him as he pushed himself into the corner. "What the hell am I doing here?" Stiles snapped, wrapping the blanket around himself. "And why the fuck am I naked?"

Derek was equally confused. "I don't know. I was..."

Stiles stared at him wide-eyed in horror. "Did you call me here?"

"No! How could you think I would do that knowing my history?" Derek backed off the bed towards the bathroom, where he fully intended to lock himself in to hide and pray the floor swallowed him whole. "I was sleeping, dreaming and..."

"Were you- were you dreaming about me?"

"I don't know , "  h e lied. "I don't remember faces or anything. It was all fuzzy." Another lie. It had been the most vivid dream of his life, one he would have loved to remembered forever, but now...it was one he just wanted to forget, along with the look he saw on Stiles' face at the moment.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Stiles tore his eyes from Derek and rubbed his forehead, all the while, keeping the blanket wrapped tightly around his body. "So um...did we..." He looked towards Derek's equally nude form. "Guess we did." He pulled his knees against his chest. He was terrified that he wasn't even safe when sleeping. Well, thankfully he couldn't be summoned to kill someone. So at least he had that going for him. More than that though, this was Eichen House all over again, and fuck just once he wanted to have sex with someone and not regret it (it wasn't like that little tryst in the Mad Hatter bathroom had been an isolated incident), for it to mean something, have the arms that held him actually care about him. Before he could say another word, Derek rushed into the bathroom and shut the door, offering Stiles a panicked 'I'm sorry.’

  
  


  
  


  
  


Derek could no longer keep the contents of his stomach down and retched into the sink. He'd wanted Stiles enough for his subconscious to... First the kiss and now this. Derek was a horrible person. Even when he tried to be good and do the honorable thing, make sure he respected him in this stupid life debt contract, he just fucked up.

He thought they'd been building to something over the last couple weeks, believed it with everything he had. How could they ever be anything besides this now? After he'd rinsed the vile taste of vomit from his mouth with Listerine, he slid down the closed door and sat on the floor.

Derek felt like crying, not little tears of pain, but full on weeping, but the last thing he wanted, well the last thing he figured Stiles wanted, was to hear him wallowing in guilt. Derek wanted to burn the image of Stiles' panicked face from his mind. Behind his eyelids, he felt his wolf clawing at the surface. It probably wanted to rip his throat out. Hell, it should want to destroy him. In that moment, Derek wanted to destroy himself.

Some time later, and hell if he could say how long, he heard a muffled, 'Fuck' from the other side of the door.. Then, because Stiles pointed out that some sections are quite complex, he took close ups. That caused quite a problem for him, being that close. Derek waited for a follow up retort, but instead, all he heard was the tap running in the kitchen, a few tenuous gulps, and then footsteps up the spiral staircase, before the door to the roof opened. How much time should he give him to process? Should he run and hide forever in shame?

It wasn't like he intended for any of this to happen, not even a little.

After a few minutes longer, he decided that they needed to talk about what happened. When he joined Stiles on the roof, he found him perched on the ledge, wings folded, eyes staring off into the distance. Derek figured he'd have shifted once he came up here. He sat down beside him, facing away from him, a blanket piled neatly in his lap.

He opened his mouth to say...well anything, but found every word dying on his tongue. Fantastic. "I..." He sighed and stared up at the stars. "I swear I would never do something like this. I get it; you think I'm some colossal asshole, but even _ I _ am not that terrible." He reached over to ruffle at Stiles' feathers, but to no surprise, the bird hopped a few steps out of reach. Yeah, he should have seen that one coming. "Sorry. I don't want this for you, or us. I want us to be friends, and...look I will get Deaton to help us. There has got to be something out there that will help. I'll do whatever it takes. I feel really terrible. I'm sorry you hate me. I just need to fix this." His voice cracked with emotion, and he stared down at his fingers as they picked at loose threads in the blanket, a blanket which was suddenly ripped from his hands.

"That's just it, Derek. I don't hate you, and there is nothing to fix. This, whatever caused this djinni hoodoo sex magic or whatever the fuck it is, didn't just happen to me! It happened to you too."

Derek wanted to laugh at the cruel irony of that, but bit his tongue. "Who the fuck cares that I was an unwilling participant? It was my head, my dream that started it."

Stiles glared at him, chest heaving with anger. "How can you be so passive about this?" In a flash, he'd shifted and flown off the roof.

"Wait!" Derek regretted the word as soon as it left his lips. "I mean. No, you can go if you want."

Stiles stopped and hovered in the air just off the roof, regarding him with wary eyes.

"I...I'm just so used to how this feels. I can't blame a demonic possession and question whether or not I had any control in the matter. I know exactly what happened. Maybe if I hadn't been manipulated with magic and sex to get revenge, maybe if I hadn't been a kid swayed by hormones and an older woman...maybe then I'd be able to question things. I don't care anymore that I, once again, had agency stripped. Doesn't hurt anymore. My reaction, my disgust, is all because I am distraught this happened to you, and it was my fault! So call me passive if you want. You're wrong, but if it helps, go ahead." He turned around and moved for the door.

"I told you, Derek, it isn't your fault. Tonight is on neither of us. You can't control your dreams, Derek. They just are."

"If I hadn't been dreaming about you."

"But you said-"

"I lied."

Stiles walked towards him until only a couple feet separated them. "You dreamed about me? _ Me _ ? Why?"

He needed to get off the roof, like yesterday. Everything was about to implode; he could feel it simmering beneath the surface, pressure in the cooker building to dangerous levels.

"Why?"

Derek took a step backward, irritated that Stiles mirrored his action with a step forward.

"Derek."

_ Get off the roof. Do it now, Derek! _ Turning to flee,  h e had just reached the handle to the door when he found himself spun around to face Stiles.

"Why were you dreaming about me?"

"Because I'm fucking in love with you!" He watched Stiles' jaw drop. "Is that so surprising? That someone could think about you in that way? That _ I _ could think about you like that? That I could be so torn up over hurting you that I want to crawl into a hole an d never come out ? Stiles, even if you reciprocated my feelings, which I am pretty sure you don't given the things you said to me on your birthday, even if- There is no way we could be any type of anything in which every bit of affection you give I won't question thinking that I somehow made you do it! So go home and stay as far away from me as possible, and hopefully I can't screw this up worse than I already have."

"No. Take it back.” Stiles' voice cracked. “I don't want to go home."

"Fine. You can stay." He dropped his head to avoid looking at him.

"You love me?" Derek nodded. "Why don't you think I could feel the same?"

"At your party? You said someone you love rejected-"

Stiles lay a hand on Derek's shoulder. "I was talking about you, you obtuse idiot."

"Stiles, I never rejected you. I was nervous, and I tried everything I could think of after your party to give you the space to get over this person who apparently was me. Now...we have this- tonight..." He closed his eyes and sighed. How would they manage to make anything work, without someone in the pack questioning his motives?

"Derek, look at me." When he didn't respond, Stiles turned his face up so their eyes met. "I thought I had misunderstood your words that day I showed you my markings. Though you said they were beautiful just like me, I thought you were just being nice. It's why I panicked and ran when I kissed you."

"You kissed me? No, that's not what happened. I was thinking about how much I wanted-"

"Derek, I promise you, I kissed you because I wanted to, and then, true to my nature, freaked the fuck out. You did not make me do a damn thing."

"Yeah I did," he whispered.

"Stop that. I want you to listen to me, right now. I don't blame you. We will figure this out so this debt/bond thing doesn't fuck with us again like this. We don't deserve it. If we had started something, if we had both been awake, would you have wanted what happened... with me?"

Derek shrugged, but gave a nod anyway.

"Well, so would I. So, we'll just have to do what you said, and ask for Deaton's help."

Derek nodded. "Yeah. It’s really late. Do you want a ride home?"

Stiles shook his head. "No, that's okay. Don't keep beating yourself up."

"I didn't want this for you, Stiles."

"I know. And if you think for a second you're a bad person, just remember how hard you've tried to make sure nothing you say to me comes out as an order." He leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, before shifting and flying away in the night.

Derek, his head still spinning from the events of the last hour, trudged down the stairs and crawled into bed, a bed that now smelled too much of Stiles for him to get any sleep.

He was still awake when the sun rose.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger explanation: While sleeping, Derek's subconscious summons Stiles to his loft through their LIfe Debt bond, and there is sexual activity that happens without either of them consenting-


	14. Pounding Pavement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> "Amber"-311

Stiles crouched down on his front porch and retied his laces. "So," he said, standing to look at Derek, "why did you invite me to go running with you? Wouldn't you rather have gone with someone else?"

"Like who? Stiles, I may be part of the pack, but I don't exactly have many friends I just randomly hang out with. Personally, I think Scott and Isaac would rather shoot themselves than hang out with me alone, and I would rather shoot myself than spend time with my uncle."

Stiles' mouth hung open in shock. "Am I...am I your only friend besides your sister?"

Derek tightened his jaw and remained silent.

"Whoa, whoa. I was not trying to be an ass. I just- Okay, let's get this show on the road then." He started jogging down the driveway, making it to the street, before he realized Derek was not following him. "What?" Stiles stopped at the curb to wait for Derek as he crossed the yard.

"I was...um... thinking this could maybe... be a date." His cheeks flushed. "It just seemed like innocent, slow way to- you know, after what happened. I totally understand if you just want this to be running between friends."

"So you want me to get all hot and sweaty before you get me all hot sweaty doing more fun things."

Derek rolled his eyes. "Sometimes, I forget why I am attracted to you at all."

Stiles rubbed his shoulder. "Easy there. This as a first date is different, not cliched. I can dig that." He started running, happy this time, that Derek chose to come along. "Your idea, you lead the way."

They settled into a companionable silence, feet pounding the pavement, deep breaths the only sound between them. Stiles, surprised that he actually enjoyed the lack of speaking for once, glanced over at Derek on occasion. He watched a bead of sweat roll down his cheek. Werewolf or not, the man was still physically exerting himself. Stiles tried not to think about him, skin flushed and feverish for other reasons, but he was failing. About a mile and a half into their run, and well onto their way towards downtown, Derek stopped abruptly, turning to gawk at Stiles.

"What?"

"Really? Now?"

Stiles furrowed his brows in confusion. "I don't- oh, sorry. You are um... really hot, pun totally intended, when you run. I'll be a good boy, keep my libido in check." Derek shook his head, and Stiles turned to face him, resting his hand on Derek's bicep. "Come on, now. It's been two weeks, and you have been a saint, needlessly I might add. I told you that night, not your fault. So stop it. I mean, hell, you are suffering through the nightly ritual partaking in a glass of that nasty ass tea Deaton blended, just like I am. It's working, and there hasn't been a repeat of that night. Derek, you can't blame yourself forever. One, it's not healthy, and two, I really want to continue this date thing you initiated, especially," he looked down at his shoes, playing coy (at least he hoped that's what his expression and action conveyed. For all Stiles knew, he looked drunk and about to fall over), "if it eventually works its way to the point where I get to kiss you."

"Oh."

"Oh? That's it? That's all I get is an 'oh'?" Stiles laughed.

Derek rubbed the back of his neck and started walking towards town. "I don't know how dating a guy works, if the expectations are different, whatever."

"You were serious about how you feel about me, right? I'm not just a bi-curious experiment?"

Derek shook his head. "No, of course you aren't. Yes, I was serious when I said I loved you. It's just this is...new."

Stiles looked over at him, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "New is good. Nothing wrong with new. I'm good with new. Never dated anyone before."

Derek furrowed his brows. “I haven't done that much either.”

He laughed. “I gotcha. You were a no strings attached kind of guy. Don't look so sheepish. I don't judge.”

Derek stared down at his shoes. “Not exactly. Look, it's been a really long time since I've been interested in anyone for either reason.”

Stiles stared at him for a few moments and then nodded before patting him on the shoulder. “That's okay, D. I get it, and it's okay.”

They picked up the path again, drifting back into silence. Before long they found themselves approaching Beacon Diner. "Are you taking me to dinner?"

"I had planned on it."

Stiles reached over at patted his sweaty cheek. "Heart of a softie under that scruff." He slowed, dropping down to a walking pace. To be honest, he'd much rather have flown than run, but he figured flying alongside Derek might have looked quite odd to the other residents of the city. Derek held the door open for him, and Stiles was about to make some sort of remark about how he was not a damsel and did not need chivalry, but something in his peripherals caught his attention, stopping him in place.

"What?"

Stiles made sure to get a good look, and yep, he definitely recognized that car.

"Stiles? What's the matter?"

He licked his lips and, without saying a word, walked into the diner with a fake smile plastered to his face. "Hi," he greeted the hostess, "could we maybe sit in the back, away from the windows if you have a table available?"

The woman looked over the seating plan. "It doesn't look like we..."

Stiles quickly tapped his mouth with his index and middle fingers. "Could you maybe double check? I'm kind of on a date, and I think I saw my ex walking across the street." He gave her a warm smile.

"Ah yes, we have one right here. Follow me."

He tried hard to disguise the tension wracking his body at the moment from Derek, but come on. The guy was a werewolf; he knew. Thankfully, Derek had the sense to wait until they were seated with their drink order in before asking Stiles any further questions. Stiles, however, shrunk in on himself, the way he did when his nerves got the better of him and threatened to send him into a tailspin of panic. Still, he had enough sense about him to cast his gaze towards the door, watching every person to come into the diner. _Mr. and Mrs. Jimenez, nope. Pretty sure they aren't following me. Old Mr. Howard? Can't drive._ He recognized a few more people, but when a pair of men came through the door, he knew immediately who they were. Stiles had spent enough time dealing with the Supernatural to recognize hunters when he saw them. He tapped Derek's phone on the table and shifted so that he could retrieve his own without being seen. Beneath the table, he sent a message over to Derek.

 

 

 

 

Derek glanced down as his phone screen lit up.

 

**From: Stiles**

**17:31**

**we were followed. same car that followed me from school. Hunters**

  
He studied Stiles' face and found a barely contained panic. "And that's why you look like you're about to throw up? Here I thought it was me." He tried to reassure him with a smile, one Stiles returned more exaggerated than Derek was sure he felt. Had to be for show.

Stiles covered Derek's hand with his own, giving it a little squeeze. "No. This has been nice. You know what would be nicer?"

Derek sent a reply to Stiles' message.

 

  
_**To: Stiles** _

_**17:33** _

_**No hunters to interrupt our date?** _

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles nodded. "I don't know about you, but I want a milkshake."

"And some curly fries?"

"Definitely. But first-" He set his phone on the table.

 

**To: Dad**

**17:40**

**11-54 and 10-66 @ BDiner- same plates as before.**

  


He perused his menu. "Mushroom and swiss burger sounds delicious. You?"

"Grilled chicken sandwich with the sweet potato fries."

Stiles looked down at his phone screen.

 

_**From: Dad** _

_**17:43** _

_**You alone? I can have Parrish come get you.** _

  


**To: Dad**

**17:44**

**No, I'm having dinner with Derek. We stopped for a bite after our run.**

  


_**From: Dad** _

_**17:44** _

_**Do not leave until I give you an all clear.**_

 

 

 

 

 

Derek studied his face like he was trying to assess the situation. "Everything okay?"

"So this is going to be one hell of a dinner, D. We could be here all night. You sure you up for that?" Stiles gave him his cheesiest grin, but he was about to break. He took a deep breath, holding it for eight seconds before exhaling. Then, he repeated the action a few times.

"I'm guessing we've been told to stick around a while. How many?" He pointed behind him, his body hiding the the gesture from the hunters.

"Two."

"I dunno, Stiles. I think we could take them." He smirked, but could see Stiles was not in the mood to joke about such a thing. "Sorry, in poor taste."

"It's just, I wish we had my half of the translation, you know. It's taking so much longer than yours did. What if it's horrible, and then there's this... new personnel issue." 

Derek opened his mouth about to speak as the server returned to the table. Once both meals had been ordered and a pair of milkshakes sat on the table, he spoke. "Does your dad work overnight tonight?"

Stiles slurped on his shake, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked on the straw, the sight of which made Derek choke on a piece of Oreo in his frozen drink. Stiles' eyes took on an elfin gleam, and he took another drink, this time sucking harder, tongue darting out of his mouth every so often to lick at the straw.

This continued for at least fifteen minutes; Derek counted. "You're doing that on purpose aren't you?"

"Why whatever do you mean, Derek? I am trying to enjoy my milkshake. I am appalled at your insinuation. I am an innocent pur-" He burst out laughing. "I can't- I can't even finish. I'm sorry, well no, I'm not sorry, because the look on your face was worth it."

Derek rose a brow at him as he scooped his spoon into the ice cream. "Yeah? And how did I look?"

Stiles shrugged, swiping a curly fry from his newly arrived plate. "Like I was Little Red Riding Hood and you wanted to eat me, which," he stuffed the fry into his mouth, "I'd be totally down for in a less cannibalistic, more sexual way."

That piece of Oreo Derek choked on was nothing compared to being unable to swallow the bite of his hamburger. "You are a menace." Just for fun, he snagged a few fries from Stiles' plate.

"Those are mine!"

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles' phone lit up with a message.

 

_**From: Dad** _

_**18:12** _

_**When you two are ready to leave, call me. I'll give you a ride.** _

  
Stiles sighed. It was going to be a really long night.  
  
  


 


	15. When Help Is Too far Out, I'll Save Myself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> “Prey”- 10 Years

Stiles smiled, reading the text from Derek that flashed on his screen while he pushed his cart through the Costco parking lot.

 

_**From: Wolverine** _

_**17:14** _

_**The loft smells delicious. See you in twenty-ish.** _

  
  


**To: Wolverine**

**17:14**

**Can't wait to see you :) A** **nd maybe give you a kiss or two :”)**

 

_**From: Wolverine** _

_**17:15** _

_**If you’re good.** _

 

**To: Wolverine**

**17:15**

**Tease**

 

Phone stowed in his pocket, Stiles twirled the key ring around his left index finger so the  keys jingled against his palm. Parking the cart behind the Jeep, he steadied the two cases of water against the bumper of the Jeep as he opened the hatch in a careful and frankly, quite impressive balancing act. He only had time to turn the key before everything went black and pain erupted from his wrists, quickly spreading through his veins like, well not fire...the opposite actually, more like liquid nitrogen, but burned nonetheless. His phone fell to the pavement.

He hit the floor with a thud, and as the vehicle started moving, the ache in his body became more than he could bear. It made him groggy, and he drifted, coming to some time later when the air around him felt damp, smelled more dank than that in the cargo area of whatever getaway vehicle they'd abducted him in.

Suddenly, someone tore the bag from over his head; the light was far too bright for his eyes. He blinked. "You are aware you've kidnapped the sheriff's kid right? I mean that whole 24 hours missing persons crap doesn't hold up in this case."

One of the men, hunters, probably the same ones that had been following him for a few weeks, laughed, but said nothing. Instead, he hooked a hose up to a strange looking contraption. Fear mounted in Stiles' throat, and he struggled against his restraints. Why did they burn? He remembered, if only vaguely, that the djinn were susceptible to iron just like the fae. Shit.

When the first droplets of water his his face, he spluttered, expecting a stream, only to be met with a fine, unyielding mist. There would be no reprieve it seemed. Tortured, well despite all the crap they'd dealt with in town, he'd managed to escape that one so far. Beaten, yes, mentally tormented, also true, but tortured? He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing while he still had the energy to stay awake.

"Don't like that so much do you? I know what you're thinking. What the hell do they want with me? I'm not a werewolf, not a killer, blah, blah, blah. Truth is, you are so much more valuable to us than some common werewolf. What we could do with you, the things we could accomplish."

Stiles blanched at the man's words, his stomach rolling. By now, Derek was sure to notice how late he was and would send in the cavalry. _ Please be sooner rather than lat- _ His thoughts were cut off as the pressure of the water increased, and holy hell, it actually stung almost like it was made of acid instead of water.

"Just gonna let you know, if you intend for me to be useful at all, eventually you'll have to turn the water off. Believe me, I've done extensive research. You'll turn me hypothermic and nothing you do, literally, nothing will get back in working order as fast as you'd like." He watched one of them walk over to the side of the room and turned down the thermostat.

"That's just what we're counting on." He laughed as he followed the other hunter up the stairs, leaving Stiles alone...in the dark.

He absolutely did not whimper like a little kid; he did not.

  
  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Derek looked at his phone as he sat at the red light. He'd called Stiles eight times now. Twenty minutes had turned into two and a half hours. Something was wrong; he knew it was. So, that's how he found himself rushing to the Sheriff's station well above the speed limit. Hell, he'd fully intended to run the red light, but there were people in the crosswalk. A hit and run was not something he wanted on his driving record, like ever.

As soon as the light turned green, he stepped on the gas, and in less than five minutes, he pulled into the station.

"Can I help you?" The deputy at the front desk asked.

"Yeah, I need to talk to Sheriff Stilinski. It's about Stiles. Please, tell him it's urgent." Derek waited, his fingers drumming on the  countertop as the seconds ticked by while he waited. _ Come on, come on. Hurry up, John. _

"Okay, what have you gotten your self into now, Stiles?" John asked, walking into the room with his nose buried in a case file. "Oh sorry, Derek. Is this a 'unique' kind of thing?" The look on Derek's face must have said everything. "Come into my office." Once inside, he shut the door. "So..."

"I think something's happened to Stiles. He was supposed to meet me at my place for dinner at 5:30."

John lowered his brows. "He was meeting you? For dinner?" He puzzled on that for a moment. "Is there...something-"

"Yes,  i t was a date. Never mind that. It's almost eight now. Just with these hunters, or whatever they are following him- I know something's wrong." He handed John his phone. "If he'd been held up; he would have said something, answered one of my calls."

John pressed the button on the side of his radio. "This is Stilinski. I need to issue an APB for a blue 1980 Jeep, model CJ-5, license 6-Quebec-Golf-Mike-3-8-7. Over"

"10-4, Sheriff. I have an APB for a blue 1980 CJ-5, license 6-Quebec-Golf-Mike-3-8-7. Should we detain driver?"

"Negative. Just let me know when you find it. 10-3" He sat down in his desk chair. "I hope you're wrong, Derek. So..." John mulled over how to bring up the elephant in the room while they waited for a follow up on the location of Stiles' Jeep. "A date?"

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, a date. Honestly, that is not important."

"You and my son?"

"Yes."

"Stiles likes guys?"

Derek would have felt like a giant asshole for outing Stiles to his dad if there was not the more pressing matter of his abduction to deal with. "S'that a problem?"

"No." John gave a pained and awkward chuckle. "It is not as surprising as you'd think it was. He tried telling me something like this during that whole kanima mess. I thought he was lying...well he was lying about why he was at the Jungle, but I feel like a jerk for not believing him. I do feel I need to say something regarding that whole life debt thing...if you-"

"I have no intentions of that; I swear. This, what Stiles and I- it's a very recent thing, and it's been tricky to navigate without triggering that compulsion to follow orders. I'm doing my best. I promise. I don't want a servant; I want a boyfriend."

John studied his face. "I believe you. Just had to che-"

“ Sheriff, this is dispatch,” the disembodied voice of his radio cut him off. "Reports of a 927 in the Costco parking lot with keys in lock, purchases and cell phone on the ground. Appears to be a 207. Over."

"10-4. Can I get a description of the vehicle?"

"That is a late model blue Jeep, matching the APB report issued ten minutes ago. Responding officer is Requesting CSU- Over"

Derek couldn't breathe, the lump in his throat too large, too stubborn. "I should have come here sooner."

John gave him a pointed stare. "Get the pack together. See if you can track him."

His head spun, and it felt like he was hearing- seeing everything from underwater.

"Derek? Did you hear me?"

He blinked and looked up at him. "Yeah. Sorry. I- What?"

"Call Scott. Rally the troops. Take Parrish. He can help."

Suddenly feeling much younger than his  twenty-four years, Derek cou ldn’t focus. "I...I..." He squeezed his eyes shut.

"When you say recent, you mean a long time coming don't you?"

Derek stared at him in confusion. "I don't-"

John patted his shoulder in much the same fashion he  had years before on the night of the fire. "Sit tight, Son. Get a hold of yourself first. I'll call Scott."

  
  


 

*** * ***

  
  


Stiles could hardly keep standing. Thirteen hours of this. Thirteen, and he wanted to die. At least the hunters heeded his warning. So instead of prolonged water, they hit him with mist for fifteen minutes at a time, turned the water off for ten minutes, giving him just enough time to start to feel like himself again, before they turned the hoses back on. Screw Chinese Water torture. Nope, this was Djinni Water torture, and he could literally feel it killing him, seeping into his bones to quench the smoke within them. Coupled with the iron cuffs on his wrists, he did not know how much longer he could keep going.

His ears perked up at the sound of the door to the basement opening, and he could not help the whimper that escaped his throat. _ No, no more water. Please. _ Honestly, he felt like crying. _ Show no weakness. You've been strong so far. You have this. _ But, he was past the point of water-induced fatigue. Now, every droplet was fire on his skin. Especially, given that his clothes never had the chance to dry out between blasts of moisture. Every inch of his body burned, and his little mental pep talk did little to comfort him.

"Rise and shine."

Stiles cringed. Not this guy again. The man made Stiles' stomach churn for several reasons. One, he leered, glances lingering far longer than Stiles was comfortable with. Two, he was the one who decided that it would be more traumatizing to have the water going in the dark. Three, he was a total moron. Stiles planned to exploit number three to his benefit. "Hey. You planning on feeding me?" Stiles' voice was thick with fatigue and disuse.

"Can't say we are. Need you highly suggestible when the time comes."

"Why?"

"You'll be so much more compliant then, less likely to resist new ownership."

Stiles knew his eyes widened at the man's words. New command ? What were they planning on doing to Derek? "What makes you think I enjoy my current command?"

"Oh don't play stupid, boy. We've seen you making the googly eyes at him. Now, either he has you commanded to be with him, or you are with him on your own accord. My money is on the second option. The change of ownership is going to hurt you badly.”

Panic and bile rose in his throat. What the- "I think you all might be overestimating my power. Look at my marks; I'm green. I am like the literal bottom of the djinn totem pole. I don't even know what I'm doing half the time. Seriously, this djinni shit, is like less than six months old. What you want is a marid, a blue djinni. Hell, even a yellow one would be better than me." He was sure the fear in his eyes betrayed him.

"Green is better than nothing."

Instead of just water this time, the hunters had apparently decided to switch up their tactics. He breathed a sigh of relief when his soaking wet shirt was sliced off him. Stiles watched, wide-eyed, as the guy picked up a fire poker. "What are you planning on doing with that?" He was met with silence, but maybe now his skin could dry off before being subjected to more water. Stiles looked down only to see his chest bright red, almost like a sunburn. Before, he could say another word, the hunter took several steps towards him again, and Stiles prepared himself for the beating he was sure to come. Instead, what happened was much worse.

When the hunter held the shaft of the implement against Stiles' chest, he screamed. Agony coursed through his body. His eyes screwed shut on their own accord, trying to will the pain away, to no avail. After countless minutes of unrelenting pain, Stiles passed out.

Later, his eyelids fluttered open just as the water rig was switched back on. He needed to develop a plan, because in all honesty he couldn't take much more of this. His head hung, unable to stay upright any longer, and Stiles counted the seconds until the torture would end, praying that no more iron was brought to his skin. As it was, he could see the angry red lines criss-crossing his chest in various places. Hopefully, they would heal, and the thought of being permanently scarred by them pissed him off, but more than that, he felt a ball of fire trying to come to life in his gut. Even in his weakened state, it gave him an idea.

"Hey," he panted, pleading, when the hose shut off fifteen minutes later, "look, if you're not gonna feed me, can I at least have a cigarette or something? Like, I missed a couple doses of Adderall, and I can feel my brain coming apart. When that happens, I tend to ramble. My dad says I get really annoying when I do that. Apparently, I just don't know how to shut up, but so my point is, can I have a smoke? I know one of you guys smokes. I could smell it earlier. I swear; those things chill me the fuck out way better than any prescription can. I mean, of course, if you want me to keep talking, I can. Got a particular topic of interest? Pretty sure I would have researched it at some point. How do you feel about capybaras?"

"If I get you one, will you please shut up?"

"Pretty good chance I will."

"Wait here."

_ Step one: Success. Step two: Pending. _ While he waited, Stiles focused on the heat in his stomach. What the hell was that, and where did it come from? He was all but totally drained of energy. In his head, he ran through every bit of research, well every bit his hungry and tortured brain would allow him to remember. Nothing stuck out. Descending footsteps brought him out of his head, and he was relieved to find the same hunter from before returning with a singular cigarette. "Say, you think you could free one of my hands? I mean I _ am _ pretty much useless with these cuffs on, but otherwise, you'll just need to hold this thing, and I don't know about you, but you don't look like the type of guy to bother yourself with such pedestrian tasks. Am I right?"

The man rolled his eyes and unhooked Stiles' right hand, giving him the cigarette, which Stiles promptly stuck in his mouth. Fully expecting to have the thing lit for him, he almost slipped up and revealed the quickly forming plan in his head when the hunter handed him a lighter. Feigning to struggle with the button, Stiles positioned his index finger so that it wrapped around the metal portion just below the flame, drawing the heat away from it and into his body as he brought the cigarette to ember. Though he longed to keep his hand on that thing until the fuel ran out, to cherish any warmth he could find, he handed back the lighter. _ Don't give anything away _ . Subtlety was the name of the game, especially in his weakened state. "Thank you." That first breath would have made most men cough, as he pulled as much smoke into his lungs as their available capacity would allow. He'd seen smokers; deep breaths like that tended to irritate the lungs. To keep up the charade, he made sure to exhale a little smoke, but already, even after two drags, he could feel it spreading through his veins, reigniting his extinguishing inner flame.

He'd hoped the guy would be too careless to reshackle his hand, but Stiles could never be that lucky. However, he turned his hand just enough to keep the cuff from being as tight as before, but not so much as to be noticed. With a little more room to maneuver his hand, his exhausted but adrenaline fueled brain tried to puzzle up a way out of his restraints. The man did prove to be too preoccupied to flip off both light switches, leaving one fluorescent bulb on to give the room just enough light for Stiles to see.

His arms, cold and cramped from being restrained above his head for over half a day, felt like lead. However, instead of chained to a fence or some other immovable point, a link of chain about a foot in length looped over a metal pipe and connected his hands. Now, the bracket which attached the bar to the ceiling kept him from being able to move more than a couple feet in either direction, but he could work with a four foot span.

As much as it pained him to do so, he drew his knees to his chest, screaming silently as his weight made the iron cuffs cut deeper into his already tender wrists. Grabbing onto the chain did little to help in that respect. He didn't want to just yank on the chains for fear of creating too much noise. So, he hung until he couldn't, taking a breather, and then repeated the action. He was fully aware of his time constraints, though he'd noticed as the hours had gone on, and he'd grown weaker, they'd been less rigid with the recoup time, usually in his favor.

Slowly, but surely, he felt the bracket start to come loose. With all the water on the floor, Stiles knew that should it fall from the ceiling, instead of hitting the ground with an abrasive clang, it would fall with a light splash that he could easily disguise as his own movements. As he dropped his feet to the floor, he watched the bracket pull loose, and just as he predicted, it splashed onto the floor, quieter than he actually suspected. He reached out with his foot and swept the bracket behind where he stood.

The basement door opened, and though he knew what came next, he had renewed zeal. Zeal, which all but vanished once those hoses turned on.

  
  
  
  
  


 


	16. Seeing Hunters Through Rage Tinted Lenses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> Scene Four: “Play Dead”- Bjork  
> Scene Five: “Canto 34”- Five Finger Death Punch, “No Leaf Clover”- Metallica

John stood at the front of his cruiser, parked in the deepest section of the preserve, pouring over maps of the area. No one in the pack had picked up Stiles' scent, and as it stood, they'd been looking for almost thirty-six hours at this point. Scott and Derek, both relayed Stiles' fears surrounding whoever had been following him, and given they'd received no word or sign from hunters, John could only assume what they wanted was Stiles himself.

He rubbed his temples to hide his anxiety. What were they doing with him; what did they want? It hurt to even think about, terrified him to no end.

After Derek's initial shock had worn off, John was amazed to watch the young man throw himself into the search like a man possessed. Now though? They had no leads and any potential holding location they could think of had been searched with nothing found. Derek had been sitting at a nearby picnic table, his head buried in his arms, for almost half an hour, with either exhaustion or despair finally making him take a break. In his gut, John began to wonder if they'd snatched Stiles and ran. He wished he could follow Derek's lead and check out for a little bit. He glanced up to see Chris Argent approaching the car. "Tell me you have something, anything."

Chris gave a small nod. "I may be out of the hunting game, but I hear things, you know from other hunters I know follow the code. So I made some calls, just trying to get anything that might help. Turns out, there was a group of about five hunters out of Arizona that started asking questions a few months ago to find out if any other supernaturals could be used, manipulated into helping them take out wolves. Once code following hunters realized they had no intentions of differentiating between the dangerous wolves and those who had harmed no one, most hunters I keep in touch with quit helping them. Given they took Stiles, and that he can be compelled to do someone's bidding, I am inclined to say they are still in the area. It's strange though, that they've made no move to try and draw the pack in, given no indication where they might be holding him."

Of all the people to approach and try to offer help, Peter came sauntering over in his usual swagger, and John fought the urge to roll his eyes. Why did the man have to walk a freaking movie villain?

"I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. If they're lying in wait for us to take the bait, which I am seriously disinclined to do-had enough hunter interaction for one lifetime," he glared at Chris, "then they'd want somewhere secluded but with access to water, public or natural. We all know what happened when Stiles went into the lake during our fight with that coven."

"We've considered as much."

"I'm not finished, Sheriff. There is an old warehouse, used to be a box factory, about two miles that way, just outside the preserve on the other side of Beacon Highway. There's nothing, literally nothing, but woods around it. If I were setting a trap, it would be a good choice. But don't listen to me." He held up his hands and walked away.

Ugh Peter. Why couldn't someone just kill the guy again?

  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Stiles awoke, the basement once again devoid of hunters. Late afternoon sun glinted in through the basement windows. He'd passed out some time ago, finally giving in to actual exhaustion this time. Somehow, he'd managed to convince his favorite dumbass hunter for two more cigarettes, and he felt strangely...good. Powerful almost. Not that he'd let that show. One thing, however, was bothering him big time.

He was starving.

Stiles rattled his cuffs against the pipe.. "Hey,  A sshats! I'm really fucking hungry! Can I have something to eat?" He received no response. In fact, he couldn't hear any of them outside. Great. He'd been left here to die.

Well, hunger or not, if they weren't around, that meant no more water. Thank, fucking God.

Now that the bracket no longer restricted him to a four foot section of movement, he slid the chain down the pipe to the bend and gave a series of hard yanks downward. He could not help the ecstatic cackle that escaped his lips when the pipe snapped free. Wary about any hunters nearby that he might not have heard, he stood, frozen in place for a few minutes. When no one came to investigate the noise, he slid the chain off the pipe and hurried around the room, as quietly as he could to find anything that could free him from his shackles or at least separate his hands.

On the far table, he saw a blow torch sitting all by itself, lonely and in desperate need of some attention. He grabbed it off the table and sat down on the floor, holding it tightly between his knees. Though with bound hands it was difficult to light, especially given the flint strike lighter, he managed after a few tries to get it going. He concentrated the flame on the smaller links that passed through the loops on the cuffs. He didn't need to melt them, he just needed to weaken them, especially since he figured the iron shackles to have been imbued with some sort of magic preventing Stiles from being able to remove them.

Stiles watched the hypnotic blue flame eventually turn the links white hot, and he pulled. The chain gave way in a satisfying snap. Sitting there on the floor, he stole the nearest piece of paper he could find, setting it aflame before he let the smoke wash over his hands and exposed skin. When the paper had burned to ash, he continued, determined to build up as much strength as possible while strategizing his way out.

 

***

  
  


"You sure about this, Scott?" Chris asked, peering through his binoculars down the hill at the seemingly empty warehouse. 

They'd counted not five like he'd initially estimated, but ten hunters. Five kept to the building, which left the remainder lying in wait to ambush them. Just great. To make matters more grim, John, in order to keep up appearances, hung back awaiting word before he brought the cavalry in.

"Yeah. If he's in there-"

"He is," Derek's voice cut through. "I tried to call him out. It didn't work, but I can definitely feel him in there. Don't ask me how it works. I have no idea. He's weak, but he's there."

"Okay. Well, first we need to get Stiles out of there. Who knows what they've been doing to him for almost two days. The darkness should lend us some cover." Scott turned to the rest of the pack. "Keep an eye out. Lydia, if you could stay with one of the wolves, just in case, I would feel a lot better about this." She glared at him but did not protest. "Be careful. I don't want this rescue to turn into a bloodbath."

"Are you saying we shouldn't take out the hunters?" Peter rolled his eyes. He was never going to subscribe to Scott's moral compass. Never.

"If it can be avoided."

"Whatever you say, Oh Alpha, My Alpha."

Next to her brother, Cora stood, a bundle of nerves. "Derek, you said he was weak, how weak? I mean are we gonna find him nearly dead? Fully dead?" Derek didn't say a word. "Are you going to be okay in there if we do?"

"No." His voice cracked with emotion.

"Well, that's encouraging."

"You asked. Just being honest."

Three hunters climbed out of a van that had just arrived. Scott tuned everyone else out, trying to isolate the heartbeats of the remaining hunters, but could only account for seven. Where were the other three?

  
  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Footsteps descended the stairs, but Stiles was prepared. Standing exactly where they'd left him, he waited. To the casual glance, he looked just the way he had for the last two days, bound and defenseless, with one minor, tiny, insignificant difference: he was anything but helpless. Hell, he'd even looped the chain over the pipe, which he'd resecured. The fact that the chain was not connected to anything would be his saving grace. Oh yeah, he'd also sabotaged that infernal water torture rig. He even pretended to be unconscious to further the illusion.

The moral of the story was: If left to his own desperate devices, Stiles could be scary as hell.

Eyes closed, he could sense the close proximity of the hunter, confirmed when the man tapped on Stiles' face in an attempt to rouse him. "I think we're running out of time on this one. If Boss Man doesn't give the word soon, this kid's gonna be useless." Stiles didn't recognize the voice of this hunter. _ Shift change? No, bring back the easily manipulated other one. _

"It's essential that we draw in the pack. You heard what he said. We need the master in order to take control and brainwash this kid to take out his pack."

Rage took over.

"Switch on the water."

If he had been more in control of his mental faculties at that moment Stiles would have smirked. Still, he waited until he heard the hiss as the water began to run in from the wall.

One.

Two.

Three.

Where he'd unscrewed the hose, the water rushed out and onto the floor and eventually reached the live wire for the fan they'd brought in yesterday to further his misery. He opened his eyes just a hair to see the hunter standing next to the rig, spasm and hit the ground in electricity induced convulsions. One down.

"What the hell?"

From where he held the chain behind him, Stiles concentrated on the fire and smoke he'd hoarded in his body instead of using it to heal himself early. The chains grew blistering hot, and in a flash, he whipped them forward and wrapped them around the nearest hunter's neck from behind, pulling as hard as he could while they burned their way through layers of skin, cartilage and bone.

As the man's lifeless body fell to the ground, Stiles noticed an odd energy shift within him. Every nerve, every fiber of his body felt as though it was on fire, and it was a delicious feeling.

"How the fuck did you get free?" The last hunter stared at him in horror.

"You should never have let me smoke." He watched the hunter, clearly terrified, point a taser at him, and he cocked his head. In that moment, that flame within him, grew. Stiles felt bigger than his body, and not in the same way he felt when he shifted into smoke. He glanced down at his hand, surprised to see a radiant green aura surrounding him. Oh, this development, this was nice. The power was intoxicating.

However, it also felt like someone else was in control of his mind and that Stiles was staring out of his eyes from behind glass, a little like...the Nogitsune. Before he could devolve into a complete mess, he took a second to concentrate on his mind, and nope, there was no one else in there with him. Thank God. "You're threatening me? You think I'm afraid of your little taser?" That voice, far deeper and menacing than any he could muster...that was not his voice. Where did that come from?

The hunter's shaking hands pressed the button, shooting the leads towards Stiles.

"I'm born of smoke and fire! Did you really think a little electricity would do a damn thing to me?" He flicked his index and middle finger away from him in the same manner he'd done to the witch, sending the electrified wires back towards the man, incapacitating him just as the basement door opened.

He stood, battle ready, blood near boiling, as he saw two familiar pairs of  shoes descend the stairs. His chest heaved, and he felt like breaking down, the thought of which, seemed to  rein in his power and bring him back into his head (Which hello, weird), and the glowing aura disappeared just as Derek and Cora came into view.

Once his feet hit the bottom step, Derek moved like he was about to run to him, but Stiles held up his hands in front of him. "Stop! Don't move, Derek!" He breathed a sigh of relief when his voice sounded like it always did, rough from disuse, but his. He pointed to the water on the floor and live wire. "Just stay right there." Now that the immediate threat to his life had been quenched, he could feel the overwhelming fatigue set in, and he crashed into Derek after only a few steps.

  
  


  
  


Derek wrapped his arms around him like a vice, burying his face in his shoulder. "Are you- did they hurt you?" He pulled his face away from Stiles' neck and looked around the room, taking in the puddles of water covering most of the floor. His stomach churned. "What did they-"

Stiles kissed his forehead. "We need to get out of here, Derek."

Derek glanced down at Stiles' wrists and the shackles that still encircled them. "Can't you just break these?"

"No, they're um...magic. They burn me, so I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to be able to remove them." Derek's claws broke through and he moved to try and rip the cuffs off. "No, later. You need to get out of here, now! Run, Derek. They're after you! That's why they took me."

"These are hurting you. You can't expect me to let you suffer. I just need a second." He let go of Stiles' wrist, and nodded once he realized Stiles was not going to protest. Though it took considerably more force than he anticipated it would, he managed to rip off both manacles. He did not, however, expect the sight that lie underneath them. Red and blistered, angry marks cut into Stiles' skin worse than just skin rubbed raw by handcuffs. To be honest, they looked like chemical burns, and when his thumb brushed against the tender skin, Stiles hissed in pain and recoiled. "I'm sorry." Derek took in the state of Stiles' chest, which looked quite similar. He was furious; he'd use that anger to his advantage.

"Make it up to me later. Let's go before the others show up." Stiles grabbed his hand and dragged him up the stairs before he could protest.

  
  
  
  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Though he could hear the fight all around them, Stiles would not let Derek stop and join in the fray. Cora, however, he could not convince, and she'd taken off to help Isaac. "Stiles, we need to go help!"

Stiles took his face in his hands. "No. Derek, I don't know what they want to do to you, but after what they did to me, I know it can't be good. Please trust me. The pack is safer if you _ don't _ fight. Scott will understand." In a reversal of their fight with the coven weeks before, Stiles kept pulling Derek farther and farther away from the fight.

Derek finally yanked his hand free. "Stiles, stop!"

He skidded to a halt, feet fixed in place. Try as he might, and he did, he couldn't move. "Derek, don't. If I told you to run as far away as you can and not stop, would you do it?"

"You can move. No, I wouldn't."

"If they get a hold of you Derek, the whole pack is dead, and it will be my fault! You have to go!"

"I don't understand."

Before he could explain, a hunter jumped out from behind a tree and grabbed Derek, looping a rope, first around his neck and then his wrists, a rope coated in Wolfsbane, if Derek's howl of pain was any indication.

"Don't hurt him, please!"

"Kill the Master, control the Djinni," the hunter hissed at him, tightening the ligature that bound Derek.

Stiles saw red. Literally. It was as though a filter had been thrust in front of his eyes, through which he saw everything in angry, crimson hues. That burning sensation he'd experienced in the basement came back in full force, and then some. Even the hazy aura surrounding him looked different this time. Yes, it was still green, but the part of the smoke closest to his skin glowed with a faint orange hue, one so subtle probably only he would notice. Worse though, his brain was devoid of rational thought. The hunter's threat had seemingly flipped a switch in Stiles' head, and all sentient thoughts shut off; only self-preservation for himself and Derek remained.

Without even needing to concentrate this time, he had an abundance of smoke billowing from his fingertips. He threw the mist towards the man with startling accuracy. For a moment, as it left his fingers, Stiles was terrified he'd hit Derek. Instead, it struck the hunter in the throat; Derek fell to the ground and tried to scramble away as best he could given his state of restraint. Fury clouding his mind, Stiles imagined the plume forming a pair of hands and wrapping around the guy's throat. It worked, and gave Stiles enough of a distraction to reach the hunter.

Stiles barreled into the man and pinned him to a tree with ease, letting the smoke recede back into his hands, as he throttled the guy. "I have no master!" Once more, his voice came out unnaturally low in pitch. Furious now and blinded by pure rage, he kept squeezing, harder and harder, until the throat around which he had wrapped both his hands turned to ash in front of him. Without so much as a scream, the rest of the man's body followed suit and became a pile of cinders at Stiles' feet.

So overcome with anger, he didn't notice the other  h unter yanking Derek to his feet and dragging him away until they were about a hundred yards from him. The pack had pushed the remaining hunters into a clearing. Before Stiles could formulate a plan, Derek's captor pushed him to his knees.

Time was running out.

Faster than he'd ever managed before, Stiles dissolved into smoke and closed the distance with a speed he didn't think himself capable just as the hunter drew a pistol (no doubt filled with Wolfsbane bullets) and pressed it to Derek's head.

He did not expect his smoke form to carry so much weight, but he slammed into the man like a tsunami assaulting a shoreline, the force of which bowled the man over and threw him to the ground. Still, the guy was a trained hunter and managed to push Stiles (who had somewhat solidified into a corporeal state) off him and tried to run. Undeterred though, Stiles reached out, encircling his arms around the man from behind. He held on with everything he had as images of scorching fire filled his head, the flames flooding his veins.

Orange-tinged green flames enveloped the man, swallowing him whole as he screamed in pain.

"Stiles, stop! This isn't our way!" Scott pleaded, but his cries fell on deaf ears.

"You don't know what they did, what they were going to do!"

The pack jumped back, startled at the bass timbre of his voice.

All he was left holding was an armful of ashes. Stiles stood, chest heaving, and squared his shoulders. "They'd kill Derek and use me to kill all of you!"

"We could have stopped them."

Stiles shook with rage. "Could you have stopped me? Do you think you would have been able to stop me after they made me kill all of you before Derek's blood ran cold?"

"I've seen the owner's rules, Stiles. They couldn't use you to kill anyone."

"No." He laughed. "But they could brainwash me and convince me to do it myself. It wouldn't be the first time supposedly code-following hunters manipulated a teenage boy and it resulted in the deaths of his loved ones." Stiles clamped his eyes shut at his thinly veiled allusion to the Hale fire. Fear had started creeping back into his mind, and he could feel some semblance of control returning to him, but only an iota. The longer he remained in this form, the more he realized he...did not like it, not even a little, not at all. _ Stiles, calm down. Focus. You are scaring all of _ _ them. You're scaring yourself.  _ He focused on his breathing in a desperate attempt to come back to himself.

"Stiles, come back." The hoarseness of Derek's voice as he gave the command did not conceal the desperate plea in his words. “Please.”

Flames licked away from Stiles' skin until the intense but heavenly warmth had fled, leaving him freezing. When he blinked, the last of the worrisome red in his eyes faded away, and he was left exhausted and confused. He'd been present, had felt the fury but it was odd, like it wasn't him- he wasn't there.

Whatever, he'd have time to figure out what the hell had just happened and why everyone was looking at him like they'd seen a ghost later. He looked down and noticed his nearly naked state, and would have felt desperately self-conscious if it weren't for all the black soot covering his body.

Then, the last thing he remembered before everything had gone foggy came rushing back: Derek

He looked around for him in the dark, following the faint whimper of pain coming from behind him. Spinning on his heel, he rushed over to Derek and worked as fast as he could to free him from the ropes which had all but left him incapacitated. Stiles had to choke back a sob at the sight of the bright red mark around Derek's neck, and he imagined the pain had to be intense if Stiles could see the line in the dark. "I was trying to keep them from getting to you. I think I made it worse." He brushed the skin just above Derek's injury with tentative fingers.

"S'okay." Derek groaned, as his skin, free from the poisonous ropes in which he'd been bound, smoothed over and started to heal itself. "You saved me. Maybe that will take care of this pesky debt." He gave him a weak laugh and didn't bother to rebuff Stiles' attempt to help him to his feet.

Stiles turned to seek out his father and couldn't ignore the terrified look Scott gave him. "What?"

"Stiles, we don't kill if we don't have to. We had them surrounded."

Stiles froze. "I don't...what?" His eyes grew wide. "I didn't kil- I just had to save Derek. They wanted all of you dead. What are you-"

"We just watched you kill two people."

Stiles reached out to try and touch Scott, who recoiled. "I...I..." His hands began to shake in huge tremors, which spread from his fingers and eventually throughout his whole body as panic took over. He was sure he'd throw up if there was anything in his stomach to expel. He definitely did not remember killing anyone.

"Whoa, whoa." Derek sensed Stiles' impending breakdown and wrapped his arms around Stiles. "Hey, it's okay. It's okay."

"I don't even know what happened. I saw him tie you up, and then-" He passed a hand in front of his face. "Nothing. Same thing happened in the basement. They were talking about using me against you all, and it's blank for about ten minutes."

 

 

 

 

Derek held him tightly, hoping his arms could chase away the last two days, though he knew they couldn't. "I think we should go find your dad. He's been so worried." Stiles sobbed into his shoulder, and Derek rubbed his back. "You'll be okay. Let's find you some clothes."

Behind him, he heard Peter talking to Scott and Chris, for once agreeing with just about everything the man said. "You see? Do you get it now? Your way doesn't always work."

"We don't need to kill people," Scott turned on his Alpha voice.

Argent cleared his throat. "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I actually agree with Peter. The type of hunter these men are and were, is not the kind to be deterred. They don't care about whether you've hurt anyone or are innocent. They just want to eliminate your kind. Can you honestly say, you'd trade Derek's life for any of these men? One of your own pack had a gun to his head, and Stiles saved him, saved you all. I think you should just let this one go."

"How can I let it go? I just watched my best friend incinerate someone."

"Well..." Peter cocked his head to the side. "As someone who was burned alive by hunters, I can tell you they probably had it coming. Who knows what they did to Stiles the two days they held him captive. In fact, I think that fact alone should convince you maybe just this once, your way was not the right way. But hey," he held up his hands in surrender, "I'm just a crazy reanimated werewolf. Don't take my word for it."

Derek walked Stiles over to where his father waited with Parrish, Melissa, and the one EMT in Beacon Hills that knew about the supernatural, Erin. Her mother had been friends with his mother. Derek had known her for years. The ambulance sat waiting for Stiles, but before they made it there, John had rushed over and pulled his son into a tight embrace.

"You can't do that to me again, Kiddo. I can't lose you too."

"Do what? Go shopping at Costco?" he chuckled.

Derek figured he was too delirious with exhaustion, hunger, confusion...guilt to return his sentiments or hold back any of his thoughts, and prepared for the biting sarcasm he knew Stiles pulled out when he was most upset.

"For once, I didn't bring this on myself."

"Of course you didn't. Just- I thought I'd lost you." John ran a hand through Stiles' hair. "Scared me."

"I'll work on not doing that again." John helped him up into the ambulance. When Erin tried to get an IV line in him, he flinched and scrambled away from her as far back into the ambulance as he could get.

Derek winced and closed his eyes; he'd seen the basement and pretty much pieced together what happened.

"Stiles, she's just trying to make sure you're okay," John tried to reason with his son.

"Keep that away from me!"

Derek felt a tug on his elbow, and the last thing he wanted to do was leave Stiles, but it was hard to disobey the guy's father.

Away from the ambulance, John turned to him. "You found him."

"Yes."

"Did he tell you what happened?"

"No, but I have an idea. You don't want to know, believe me, as someone who's been subjected to hunters' warped sense of morality before." He excused himself and returned to the ambulance, where he found Stiles tugging on the t-shirt and sweatpants Melissa had given him. "Do you want me to take you home?"

The pleading look in Stiles' eyes said more than words ever could. On their way to Derek's car, they passed Scott, and he didn't miss the odd energy between the two of them. Clearly, Scott was torn between his sense of morality and concern for Stiles, unable to process either emotion at the moment. Stiles just looked like he wanted to get the hell away from their location as fast as possible. Derek didn't blame him.

Scott moved like he wanted to hug Stiles, but stopped. "You gonna be okay?"

 

 

  
  


Stiles blinked, dead on his feet. "Emotionally? Or physically?"

"Both of course."

"To be honest, I don't know, Scott."

"Well, at least you weren't burned to ash."

Stiles swallowed hard and looked down at his feet. "Can you at least give me a couple days before you chastise me? I just spent the last days in hell."

Despite Scott's clear struggle with Stiles' actions, he hugged him.

Stiles broke down into his shoulder. "They tortured me, Scott! I don't know what happened. Okay? I just know that I had to do it. Had to, like a compulsion to save Derek and myself. And anyway, you want me to feel bad? Were you intending to give them a pass?"

"No. Of course not."

Stiles released him from his clutches. "Scott, do you know what prolonged water exposure feels like for me? I'm not talking like what happened when I went over the cliff. I mean like hours and hours of having it sprayed on me without letting it dry! It feels like I'm drowning in acid, Scott, covering every inch of my body slowly killing me, especially when they kept the room so fucking cold I couldn't recover. That's not even taking the iron cuffs and bars into effect!" He shuddered. "What was it that Allison used to say? 'Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes.' Well, I did that, Scott. You all had no idea what you had coming, and I protected you all. Don't expect me to feel bad about that." He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand and continued to walk towards Derek's car.

Once inside, he reveled in the fact Derek had jacked the heat up. It helped, really it did. However, it did little for his mental state, and he checked out from the world for the entire drive home.

  
  


 


	17. Stay, Please

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> “Break In”- Halestorm

Derek unlocked the door to the Stilinski residence with the key John gave him. Stiles hadn't said a word in the car and somehow looked both on the verge of tears and catatonic, the way Peter used to be before he killed Laura, sitting there in that chair with a blank expression on his face. Once Derek had shut the door and hung the key on its hook in the kitchen, he pulled Stiles into another hug and kissed the top of his head. "Are you hungry? I can make you something."

Stiles crossed an arm over his chest to rub the bicep of his opposite arm. "No, well yes, I am, but I don't want to eat."

"Want some tea or hot chocolate? I can toss a blanket in the dryer to get warmed up for you."

"I'm a mess. I should get cleaned up." He sat on one of the bar stools at the breakfast bar. "But hot cocoa sounds really good. It's um," Stiles rubbed his forehead, trying to remember, "third shelf in the pantry. There's a tub of Ovaltine."

Derek gave him a little smile and sought out the drink mix. "Do you like yours made from milk or water?"

"Milk, but water's faster. We have an electric tea kettle."

Derek took the gallon of milk from the fridge and rummaged in the cabinets near the stove for a small saucepan.

"No, you don't have to do that. Water is fine."

Once he had enough milk in the pan to make a glass for each of them, he sat next to Stiles. "These last two days have been...let's just call them hard- not knowing where you were or if you were hurt was agonizing for me, hard on all of us. Please, would you let me take care of you? I need to make sure you're okay. Please." He rubbed the back of Stiles' hand, but could hardly look at him, afraid he'd just be staring at an empty seat, one that would remain so forever. As he stared at the counter, he felt Stiles' other hand come to rest over his. "If you really don't want me to, I won't, but-

"Okay."

They sat in silence for several minutes, until Derek, with his enhanced hearing, knew the milk was simmering in the pan. "Do you have whipped cream or-"

"Just the cocoa is fine for me, but there might be some Redi Whip in the fridge. Check the date on the can though."

“ You know me so well.” Derek chuckled and sought out the can of cream, which was, as Stiles hinted it might be, long past expired. Damn. He set a mug down in front of Stiles, who wrapped his hands around it, appearing to revel in its warmth.

"Are you sure you don't want me to warm up a blanket?"

"I have an electric one in my closet."

Without giving him a chance to protest, Derek rose and ascended the stairs. At least if he preheated the thing, maybe Stiles would be able to drift off to sleep right away, surrounded by warmth. As it stood, Derek knew it futile to point out the guy was shivering and had been since Derek broke through whatever feral state Stiles had been in when he saved his life.

He returned downstairs to see Stiles staring blankly at his empty mug like he was trying to fill it back up with his mind. "Are you okay?"

Stiles licked his lips and swallowed. "You know, when the Nogitsune was in charge, I could see everything he did, and though he used my body to do it, I kn e w it wasn't me. I did not make the decision to hurt anyone. The opposite actually. I was screaming in my head for him to stop. I didn't want any of that; it's why I was okay if you all had to kill me to stop the thing. You know, because I couldn't stop him, I knew you'd need to go to desperate measures. Tonight..." He stood and carried his mug to the sink, but his trembling hands could not keep hold of the thing, and it crashed to the floor where it fractured into several pieces. Stiles, it seemed, fractured right along with it, breaking down sobbing into his hands.

Careful to avoid the broken ceramic, Derek sidestepped the pieces and took Stiles into his arms. He supposed he could offer words of comfort, but he doubted he had anything to say that would soothe him. Instead, he settled for rubbing Stiles' back while he cried.

"I know they were bad people, that they were going to hurt all of you, but I did that, Derek. I killed them; I can't blame a possession. That was me. They are dead, because of me. What if they had families who knew nothing of their actions? I didn't even leave bodies to be buried. I'm...I'm...I-" Whatever thought he'd been trying to express died on his tongue, and Derek held on tighter. "Did I look like a monster? I feel like one."

Honestly, Derek had been so blinded by pain, he hadn't seen him when he killed those hunters. "No. Hey, come on. Why don't we get you cleaned up?"

 

 

  
  


They trudged up the stairs, both battle weary and tired. Inside the bathroom, Stiles stood, frozen, and stared at the shower. Stiles couldn't tell if he was shaking because of the chill that still had not subsided or fear, and in truth, it was probably a mixture of both.

"Where are your first aid supplies? Your wrists look bad." Stiles did not respond. "Hey, first aid?"

Stiles came back out of his head. "Um...hall closet should have some stuff." He couldn't turn his gaze away from the tub. There was no way he could go forever without bathing, but he couldn't make his feet move towards the thing. His breathing grew shallow, and he spun around unable to continue looking at it. However, that only made things worse, because now he stared at the sink, and Jesus, there was water everywhere.

"Whoa, Stiles, can you stay with me?" Derek had come back into the bathroom to find Stiles about to meltdown in panic. He took his hands and led him into the hallway. "I need to clean off your burns. How do you want me to do that?"

"I can't go in there."

"Okay." Derek pulled a towel from the closet. "You want to change out of your clothes, cover yourself?" He found a small but empty plastic tub on the bottom shelf of the closet, like the kind used for a foot bath and filled it with soapy water. Washcloth in hand, he took Stiles' wrist. "Do you want to do it yourself?"

Stiles stared at a blank space on the wall.

Derek sat down next to him in the hallway. "Let me know if you want me to stop." As gingerly as he could, Derek dabbed and wiped at the blackened skin on Stiles' arms, apologizing for every hiss of pain his actions elicited. Eventually, he had washed away the soot on his arms. "Still doing okay?"

Eyes shut, Stiles nodded.

"Do you want to lean forward so I can clean your back." With less injured skin on his back than on either his arms or chest, Derek moved quickly, but by the time he made it around to the front, Stiles had tears running down his face. "I'm sorry. I'm trying to go quickly. Do you want me to stop?"

"Just hurry up."

He moved faster over Stiles' chest than he had on his back, but kept the pressure gentle. The container of soapy water, was quickly soiling with remnants of ash and soot. He wrung as much water as possible out of the cloth before cleaning Stiles' neck and face. "There. I'm done. I'll need to change the water if you want to clean your legs. I figure you'd want to do that yourself."

"No. I need to stop."

Derek nodded, and picking up some antibiotic ointment and bandages, tended to the burns on Stiles' chest, wrapping his wrists in gauze. "You didn't have any burn cream. This is the best I can do."

Stiles rubbed at the cloth encircling his wrists. "Thank you," he whispered.

 

 

  
  


Derek opened his mouth to say what he was sure would be nothing poetic or even remotely important, but words failed him. Instead, he simply leaned forward and kissed Stiles' forehead before helping him to his feet.

In Stiles' room, he looked through the dresser drawers for clean pajamas. "Here you go."

Stiles handed him back the shirt. "My chest feels sunburned. Can't sleep with a shirt on when that happens. It's...itchy."

Derek turned around to give him some privacy to change.

"Pretty sure after tonight you don't need to do that. The whole damn pack has pretty much seen me naked now. What's the point?"

Derek threw a quick glance over his shoulder. "Did you want us to?"

"No. I'm not like you wolves. Exhibitionism isn't for me. I'm not ashamed, I just-"

"Well then, I will keep my back turned. If it helps, you were glowing. It sort of obscured your body."

Stiles gave a pained laugh, one that sounded more fractured than anything. "Doesn't matter, D. Anyway, I'm done. You can turn around. Who knew, the guy who liked to creep in the shadows my sophomore year was secretly a gentleman?"

"It's not that... It's... " Before he could articulate his thoughts, Stiles climbed into bed. "Comfy?"

"I'm warm at least."

"That's good." When he turned to leave, Stiles reached out and grabbed his arm.

"Stay," Stiles' voice cracked, "please. I don't want to be alone. Honestly, I don't think I should be; it's probably not a good idea anyway."

In truth, Derek secretly hoped Stiles would ask, if only for the reassurance that they had indeed found him in time. "Okay."

"You can borrow clothes."

He smirked. "I was hoping you'd return the favor." He pulled the largest pair of pajama pants from Stiles' drawer and replaced his jeans with the knit pants. He started to stretch out on the floor, using his balled up shirt for a pillow.

"No, you don't have to do that. I can't make you sleep on the floor. If you're uncomfortable with it, I will scoot as close to the wall as I can. I solemnly swear that I will do my best to not touc-" He stopped when Derek climbed into bed beside him.

"I let you lay your head in my lap for an entire pack night while you were in jackal form, I think I can handle sharing a bed with you. Besides, what makes you think I wouldn't want to anyway?"

"You have me there."

Finally being able to rest felt like a godsend, and Derek closed his eyes. Next to him, he could tell Stiles was trying to get comfortable. "You okay?"

"No."

"Anything I can help with?" He smirked in the dark at Stiles' nervous chuckle. "You can come here." He could hear Stiles sigh in relief and fought to keep his chest from bursting when Stiles snuggled into his side. With Stiles' head resting on his chest, Derek took a deep breath, immersing himself in his scent. If he'd been asked before, if the smell of smoke would ever quit bothering him, reminding him of his lost family, Derek would have said no, but somehow, somehow Stiles had changed that. His arm, on instinct, curled around Stiles' shoulders, and soon, both of them had drifted off to sleep.

  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Beside him in the dark, Derek could feel Stiles tossing and turning, muttering to himself words of mostly nonsense. However, every so often Derek would catch a word clear enough to understand. Words like, 'Stop,' 'Please,' and 'Don't,' broke through the silence filling the room. Derek rolled onto his side and wrapped him in a hug, rubbing his hands up and down over Stiles' upper arms in a vain attempt to calm him down from whatever nightmare was clearly plaguing him.

"Shh, shh. You're okay. It's just a dream." For a moment, he thought his words and soothing caress would actually work. Stiles stilled in his arms. Stilled, that is until he started writhing in Derek's arms, his body growing warmer with every second. Derek tried to hold him tighter, uttering words of comfort to no avail. With one powerful thrash, Stiles was out of the bed and across the room in less than two seconds. "Stiles, you're having a nightmare. You're okay." Derek was reluctant to use a command on him for the third time that night, but in all honesty, he was worried about him hurting himself.

Stiles clawed at his skin. "Put me out! Make it stop!"

"Stiles, I don't understand."

After a few more seconds, Stiles calmed down and opened his eyes. Derek could smell the anxiety rolling off him in waves. Frantic green eyes darted around the room as they adjusted to the darkness. Slowly, the green faded back into brown.

Derek held out a tentative hand, intending to lay it on Stiles' shoulder, but the gesture was refused. "Don't!" He jumped back. "I...don't want to hurt you!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I was on fire. Didn't you feel it?"

"Stiles, it was just a nightmare. You're fine."

"I...I burned you up." He stared at Derek with wide eyes.

"No. No. I'm fine. You didn't hurt me." He took a step towards him. "Can I show you?" He held out his hand once more, and this time Stiles took it and let Derek pull him closer. Derek put Stiles' hand on his chest, moving it along the skin, which, still smooth, showed no sign of burns. Then, he moved the hand to his neck and then cheek. "I'm fine. See?" Stiles nodded. "It was just a nightmare." Derek didn't dare tell him how his skin had grown febrile in his embrace. That could wait for the morning.

Stiles stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. "It felt real, Derek." He shook in Derek's embrace, clearly still rattled by the dream.

"They always do." Derek rubbed the back of Stiles' head. "That's why they scare us so much. It's worse when what happens in them _ could _ be real." He stepped back and took Stiles' face in his hands. "How about we go back to bed?" He stroked Stiles' cheek with his thumb. When he brushed a little too close to his mouth, Stiles turned his head to kiss it and take it into his mouth, all while staring at him. Derek felt his heart stutter in his chest. This was an invitation, but he couldn't move, not that it mattered, because Stiles wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and pulled him close.

Unlike the first time, in which Stiles panicked and ran soon after, there was no urgency in this kiss. Gentle touches of lips in the dark, brushing against each other in a way that set every nerve alight- Derek couldn't remember the last time he'd been kissed like that, if he ever had been. His hands splayed against the bare skin of Stiles' back, warm like it should be. Damn, did Derek want to pull him closer, but not even an inch remained between their bodies.

Stiles traced his lower lip with his tongue, and Derek couldn't help but gasp a little as Stiles' tongue slipped across his like an exploration, mapping the cavern of his mouth so that he may never forget how it tasted, how it felt against his own. Derek didn't want him to forget.

Before he realized it, Stiles had backed him ever so slowly towards the bed, and it was only when the backs of his legs hit the edge of the mattress that he even registered that they'd moved. Moonlight filtered in through the blinds, covering their bodies in pale blue light, and Derek was sure if the moon had been full, he might have been filled with a sense of desperation. Yet, he was content, absolutely so, to keep up this languid pace they'd set.

Stiles raked his blunt fingernails against Derek's scalp, and he felt chills, sparks even, but all he could manage in return was to run his fingertips softly over the skin of Stiles' arms, back, his neck. It was an interesting dichotomy, Stiles' more hungry approach compared to his own almost hesitant one, but Derek had no desire to control how this went, not after that first time.

Stiles climbed into his lap, giving his hair a little tug to the side, and trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw and down his neck to his shoulder, nipping at the skin of his collarbone. Derek was pretty sure he whimpered at the sensation, an action that, he as a werewolf should have flinched at. Yet, he melted into it.

He didn't just hand over the reins of control completely, to let Stiles just take. His head was in the moment, even if his body felt like it was floating. He took Stiles' face in his hands and turned his chin upwards, where he captured his lips once more. Fuck, he just wanted to feel them against his forever.

  
Not only could he not remember the last time he'd been kissed like this, Derek couldn't remember the last time he just...made out with someone, which was a travesty, though if Stiles kept rolling his hips against him, the whole situation would need to move beyond kissing. To be honest, though he'd be okay with that, he was really enjoying this exactly the way it was.

He trailed his hands down Stiles' back to his hips, holding them firmly, to get him to stop moving. However, when he realized his hands were, in fact not on Stiles' hips but his ass, Derek pulled them back right away. Against his lips, Stiles chuckled.

"You can keep them there; it's okay." He pulled away and looked at Derek. His lips were kiss bitten and swollen, and the sight of them filled Derek with want. "Need a position change?" When Derek nodded at him, Stiles smirked, crawling off his lap and flopped onto the bed, dragging Derek with him.

Lying side by side eliminated that pesky, but oh so delicious, hip roll Stiles had going, but this...this was good. This was essentially their first kiss, and look how far things had progressed. If Derek was being honest with himself, he just wasn't quite ready for more yet. Listen to him, he sounded like a virginal teenager, but the teenager part of that comment aside, was it really that different? Derek could count on one hand his number of positive sexual encounters, and even then he'd only need two of his fingers.

In truth, he was nervous as hell, a fact of which, Stiles seemed to pick up on.

"Hey," he whispered, breaking free from their kiss. His thumb caressed Derek's cheek. "This is good. I'm fine with this." He moved in and captured Derek's mouth again. "This isn't just new for you," he mumbled against Derek's mouth, resuming the lazy pace they'd set initially, slow drawn out kisses in the dark until both of them, far past exhausted by the day's events succumbed to sleep, wrapped in each others arms.

  
  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Warm sunlight glinted in through the window, eventually rousing them from sleep. Stiles lifted his head from Derek's chest and gave him a sleepy smile. "Hey."

"Hey. How you feeling?" Derek's voice was thick with sleep.

"I'm tired, sore, but I've warmed up finally. I figure that counts as an improvement."

He kissed Stiles' forehead and glanced over to the nightstand, when his phone buzzed. Plucking the thing off the table, he opened up the email. "So, good news, I guess. Deaton translated most of your tattoo," he said, tightening the arm he had wrapped around Stiles' shoulders.

"That man's timing is...superbly subpar. Where was this shit three days ago?"

Derek chuckled and started to read. "Damn."

"What?"

"You need to save my life four more times to satisfy that Life Debt."

Stiles grabbed the phone from him and sat up. "Fuck that. You are not putting yourself in that situation where I need to save you four more times."

Derek sighed in relief. "And here I thought you just didn't want to save me."

Stiles leaned down and captured his lips in a kiss. "Liar."

He took back his phone, reading through the list and felt a weight settle in the pit of his stomach. "Rule Four B: You can't kill me or wish me dead."

"I think we pretty much established last night that I don't want you dead." Stiles yawned and snuggled back in beside him.

"Four A: Anything I wish for that follows the rules, you have to grant." He scowled at the rest of the rule. "But um..."

"What?"

"You cannot grant a wish at face value."

Stiles wrinkled his brows in confusion until realization dawned on him a moment later. "Oh."

"Yeah oh. No wonder the djinn are known for their wishes backfiring. You're encouraged deal out karmic retribution."

"I already figured that part out actually. Broke some asshole's car for almost running over Scott. It was awesome; you should have seen it."

"I bet you did," Derek smirked. "We already figured out the follow non-wish commands part. Rule Three: You can dole out wishes to anyone as often as you want."

Stiles frowned. "I don't actually want to do that at all. After all, I'm only like this," he gestured to his torso, "because of a wish in the first place."

Derek wrapped both arms around his shoulders and pulled Stiles on top of him where he placed a soft kiss on his lips. "Stiles, you exist because of a wish. Don't forget that." Stiles averted his eyes, but nodded.

"What else does it say?" he mumbled into Derek's chest.

These three rules were the ones that bothered him, and Derek tried to think of a way to sugar coat them, but was unsuccessful.

"Come on. Tell me."

He sighed. "Rule One: Anything you do that is not a result of an order or wish, you are responsible for, be it good or evil, and you bear the consequences of the action."

Stiles scoffed. "How is that any different than normal?"

Derek didn't answer him, because he had a sinking feeling rule number one had unseen influence on rule two. "Rule Two: If you feel your life or Master/Wish Holder- well my life is in peril, you may use any action or force you deem necessary to save it. I think that's why you spaced out and killed those guys."

Stiles' lip quivered. "Can we pretend that didn't happen? That I didn't take a life, let alone four?"

"Between you and  me ? Sure. I can't speak for others. You know I can't."

Stiles nodded, and dropped his head back down onto Derek's chest. "Anything else?"

Derek held him tighter. "Rule Six: I can't, nor can anyone else, wish you free except in the circumstance below."

"Which is?"

"Well, Deaton says something about Rule Five being half finished and unable to translate, and the special circumstance is missing entirely. Sorry," he said when he felt Stiles tense up on top of him. "He'll figure it out. We'll figure it out."

"Derek...what if it's something horrible?"

He scooted out from under him and stood, extending a hand. "It won't be." He tugged him to his feet, kissing his forehead. "I'm hungry." There was a lightness in his chest that he hadn't felt in years, possibly since before his family died. No, definitely not since then. He smiled at him, a full one, the kind that reached his eyes, forming little creases at their edges. "I'll make you breakfast. Whatever you want...that you have ingredients for, anyway."

A little wobbly on his feet, Stiles stared at him. "Who are you, and what have you done with Derek?"

"What?"

"That smile. I have _ never _ seen you smile like that, and you're happy."

He shrugged. "This...between us, even if it's new, makes me happy. _ You _ make me happy. Simple as that."

" _ Me? _ Have you met me? Anyway, I should probably shower first." He grabbed clean clothes from his drawer. "Could you...wait outside in case I need help? I don't know how fast the water will affect me today."

"Of course."

 

  
  


  
Stiles walked into the bathroom and quickly stripped, stepping under the spray as soon as the water was as hot as it would go. Needles- It felt like needles against his skin. He washed like a man possessed and finished his shower in two minutes, stumbling out of the tub and almost falling in the process. He wondered if he could get away with a shower every other day and just washing his hair for the next couple weeks until he recuperated. It took him three tries to get his boxers and sweatpants up his legs, and there was no way he was putting a shirt on. The water had only reaggravated the fading welts left by the iron bar.

"You okay?"

"Not really." He opened the bathroom door and fell into Derek's chest. "Two minutes. I couldn't even manage two minutes."

Derek stared at Stiles' chest. "It's all red again. I'll put some aloe on it and change your bandages once we get breakfast cooking." Derek reached down and took Stiles' hand, giving it a little squeeze on their way down to the kitchen. "So," he said, turning to Stiles, "obviously you want coffee, but what to eat?"

Stiles pushed past him and parked himself in front of the coffee maker, where he went to work, purely on habit until that black, heavenly nectar of the gods started dripping into the carafe. "Mmm. Pancakes. I'll help." When he tried to step in, Derek stopped him.

"I said I'd make you breakfast."

"And I'm going to help." Stiles gave him a cheeky but tired grin.

"I could tell you to sit, and really you should."

"You could, but I'd be very vocal about my displeasure in doing so." He stepped into Derek's space, wrapping both arms around his waist under the guise of giving a hug, when in reality, he just grabbed a glass measuring cup from the cabinet behind Derek's head.

"Sneaky." Derek hugged him back and nuzzled at his neck. "Fine, you can help."

"Thanks. I mean, it's my house and all." He snickered at the blush that spread across Derek's cheeks, and kissed his nose. Before he crossed to the pantry, he turned on the radio for some early morning (HA! It was 8:30) tunes. He enjoyed music while he cooked.

Derek laughed at his armful of ingredients. "You could make trips you know."

Stiles set his mise en place down on the counter. "Don't mock my system, Derek. I have perfected this in eight years of cooking for myself, I'll have you know. If I grab everything at once, I don't forget anything or go off on a tang- hey wait. I don't do that anymore anyway. Score one point for Djinni-hood." It didn't take long for him to have the dry goods measured out, adding extra cinnamon per Derek's request. Also for Derek? The bananas and honey. Stiles had to admit, he'd never thought of adding either to pancakes, not that he cared in the slightest while he stood next to him at the counter as the man cooked the griddle cakes. There was something so damned domestic about everything, and it made Stiles' heart swell. This, was that feeling he'd been jealous of whenever any of his friends talked about being in a relationship, not the sex (though he imagined when they crossed that bridge, sex with Derek would be pretty damn good).

He'd tried that no-strings sex and hated it. All he really wanted was someone to spend time with, alone, someone who actually wanted to be around him, romantically.

"What?"

"What do you mean, what?"

"You have this huge smile on your face."

Stiles hugged him from behind, resting his chin on Derek's bare shoulder. "Nothing, really. Just...thank you."

"For?"

"Working so hard to try and find me, making sure I got home okay, taking care of me...staying." He kissed Derek's shoulder. "I'm not actually sure how I would have reacted to that nightmare if I'd been alone."

Derek took the last pancake off the griddle and spun in Stiles' arms. "It was no trouble; I was happy to do it."

"I know, just- that is a lot of pancakes for just the two of us."

Derek pointed to the clock on the microwave. "Your dad will be home soon." He watched Stiles' face pale. "Relax. It's okay. He...knows." Derek winced.

"What? You outed me to my dad?" His voice squeaked. "How could you do that?"

"I had to. Stiles, I'm the one who reported you missing. I had to explain to him why I knew something had happened to you. I thought finding you quickly was more important. I'm sorry. I felt terrible about telling him, but what else was I supposed to do?"

Stiles shrugged and leaned his head into Derek's chest. "I guess you're right. And did he..."

Derek kissed the top of his head. "He supports you, and me I guess. I mean, he threatened me, you know, given the whole life debt thing, but I expected that." Stiles gave a small laugh. "I'm sorry. I know that was a personal thing you probably wanted to do, but-"

"It's okay." He stepped back and rubbed at his wrists, forgetting that the gauze was still wet, which honestly wasn't that hard. The pain in them had not subsided much if at all, what was a little extra stinging?. "Can you..." He held up his hands for Derek to see.

"Yeah. Sit tight; let me go get the supplies."

Stiles hopped up onto the empty counter space, casting a nervous stare at the sink next to him, briefly wondering whether the thing would come to life and try to drown him. Instead of dwelling on that thought any longer, he leaned his head back against the cabinet and closed his eyes, only opening them when he felt Derek rub some aloe on his chest.

"I don't even know it this will help, but-"

"It's fine. Thanks."

Derek began to unwrap Stiles' wrists and earned a hiss of pain in response. "Sorry." He balled up the used gauze and threw it into the trash under the sink. The skin which had been rubbed raw, burned even, by the iron cuffs looked no better than the night before. He grabbed a cotton pad and dabbed the antibacterial ointment on Stiles' wounds, even though it was not the best thing for burns. Stiles did not need the broken skin becoming infected.

 

 

  
  


Pausing in the dining room, John took in the scene before him in the kitchen. He still didn't believe they'd managed to find Stiles in one piece, more or less. Sure, they'd been lucky with the Nogitsune, but he didn't think they'd luck out twice. He looked at his son, unaware of his presence. John saw for the first time, the tattoos he'd mentioned in that first conversation they had about Stiles' 'somethingness' as his son had called it it. The marks, mostly dark green in appearance, though some seemed to have a little orange at the edges, made a stark contrast to his son's otherwise fair skin.

He watched Stiles stare down at his wrists, and he felt his heart constrict.

"They look terrible," Stiles said, his entire posture shrinking in on itself.

Derek set the medicine down on the counter. "I'm sure they'll heal just fine."

 

 

 

 

"That's not what I meant. Hey, at least with the gauze off it doesn't look like I tried to slit my wrists. It just looks like I was arrested and the cuffs were too tight. I hope they don't scar too badly."

Derek cupped his chin, caressing his cheek. "They'll get better."

"Says the werewolf without a scar on his body. I don't know how supernatural healing works on me. Honestly, I think the only reason my chest doesn't look too bad is because of my markings. I think they self heal. As for the rest of me, I don't know."

"Do they hurt?"

"Yeah a little." When he watched the black lines of pain begin to roll up the veins in Derek's arms, he tried to protest. "You don't have to do that."

Derek panted as he finished. "You said a little? That was not a little."

Stiles gave him a small but sleepy smile. "Thank you."

Once he finished rewrapping Stiles' wrists, Derek slotted himself against the counter between Stiles' legs and kissed him, softly at first, but the kiss grew heated until the sound of someone clearing their throat broke them out their reverie.

Stiles looked to the dining room only to find his dad. Derek tried to move away, but Stiles reached out and grabbed his hand. "Hey, Dad. Derek made pancakes. We were just about to eat. He made enough for you." He hopped off the counter and pulled three plates out of the cupboard like being discovered damn near making out, half-clothed in the kitchen was old news. "Sit. How many do you want?"

 

 

 

 

John blinked a few times at his son's lack of embarrassment and flailing. There was no attempt at a lie. Nothing. He supposed though, that after the horrific ordeal the kid had been through, little would fluster him right now. "Three please."

Stiles nodded, filled the plate with pancakes, and poured a glass of orange juice, setting both in front of his dad. "Derek, how many?"

"I can get them. Would you like to sit too?" Stiles shook his head, and there would be no convincing him to take it easy. "Okay, five then." He pulled a couple mugs from the cabinet.

"Sugar is in the blue canisters in the pantry. The second biggest one. There should be some half and half in the fridge. Unlike the Redi-Whip, I know that stuff is fresh." When Derek handed him the cream, Stiles poured a splash into his cup. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Derek loading spoonful after spoonful of sugar into his mug. "Whoa there, Wolfman, trying to give yourself Werewolf Diabetes?"

Derek rolled his eyes at him. "Got any chocolate syrup?"

Stiles scoffed, shaking his head as he walked behind Derek to the fridge, from which he produced a bottle of Hershey's. "I will never understand how you can like your coffee so sweet. It's gross."

The three men ate their breakfast in relative silence, before his dad spoke up. "Oh yeah, you got a bunch of mail those two days you were missing. Let me go grab them." He stood and walked to the table by the front door where they dropped their mail, returning with a small stack.

 

 

 

 

 

"Junk, junk, don't care, why are they sending me stuff? I'm not retired."  Stiles muttered as he sorted through his pile of letters. "No, I don't want a credit card, junk, junk. Hello, University of Colorado." He pulled the letter from the stack and quickly opened it, his eyes bright with excitement, excitement that faded immediately upon reading the all too familiar words _ 'We regret to inform you...' _ Before he could stop himself, his head fell to the table, and he rapped it repeatedly (albeit softly) against the wood. After a moment, he resumed sorting, finding little enthusiasm when he opened the letters from UNLV, Northwestern, and Washington State. All three of those were bad news too. What the ever loving hell?

"All no's?"

"Dad, I give up. I have one more school pending, and if they say no, I'm just finding a job." Stiles stoo d, then  carried his stack of rejection and dumped it into the trash piece by miserable piece. However, when he went to throw in the junk magazine, an unopened piece of mail fell to the floor. "Well make that no schools pending." With a sigh, he slid his finger under the flap, pulling out the paper to read those words he'd been yearning to see for months, _ 'We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the fall freshmen honors program...' _ "About damn time." He looked over to see his dad smiling.

"So, where are you going?"

"You're not gonna like it."

"Expensive?"

"More than any UC school? Yeah, but it's on the other side of the country." He dropped the letter on the table "Temple. Guess I'm  going to Philly."

"You sound so disappointed." His dad  patted him on the shoulder.

"Well I mean, most people are disappointed not to get into their first choice school. I was, along with second through twenty-ninth choices. I don't want to go that far away, but they're giving me quite a bit of financial aid. I'd hate to turn that down."

"I know you, Stiles. You'll do just fine. Just another challenge."

Stiles shrugged, pain creeping back into his arms, still too tired, too emotionally drained to really care. He looked over at Derek to see him staring at his plate, brow slightly furrowed, like the guy was even less excited about Stiles' acceptance than he was. As he thought about it, Stiles realized Derek probably was dealing with mixed emotions. On one hand, happy Stiles got in to college. On the other, processing the fact that, yet again, someone he loved would be going away. He reached over and gave Derek's hand a squeeze. Stiles had no intention of ruining what they had started.

They'd figure something out.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 


	18. I Need You to Come Find Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> Scene Four: “Drive”- Deftones

Derek pushed open the diner door so Cora could walk underneath his arm. The two of them waited at the front counter to be seated.

"So," she started with a smirk, "how are things going with Stiles? You know...now that you're actually together instead of mutually pining like a pair of sad puppies."

Derek rolled his eyes at her. "They are going well." The hostess showed them to their table. "We went to the movies on Thursday."

Cora reached across the table to pinch his flushed cheek. "Aww, it's so cute when you're happy." She mimed choking herself. "And by cute, I mean jarring when contrasted with your overall demeanor."

Breath caught in his throat, Derek stared at her for a few moments, both confused and lost in his head..

"What?"

How could he explain it without making himself sad? "Nothing."

"No nothing. What? I have something on my face?"

He shook his head. "No, it's just that sounded so much like something Laura would have said, and you already look like her a lot. I just had a moment there where I forgot who I was talking to."

Cora took a drink of her coffee and gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze. "I wish I could have known her better."

"Me too. She was funny and outgoing. Popular. People actually liked  _ her _ ." He emptied a fifth packet of sugar into his mug of coffee, and grabbed another, opening it without meeting his sister's gaze. "Pretty much the opposite of me."

 

 

 

 

 

Cora frowned. When she'd first been released from that bank vault and joined the pack, albeit briefly, she had to admit she was unimpressed by the wolf her older brother had grown into. Still, they had that two month trip down to South America to get to know each other, and she'd long since come to understand the chain of unfortunate circumstances that had made him that way in the first place. Learning the details surrounding Jennifer, the Darach, or whatever the hell she called herself and what the bitch had done to Derek, still set Cora's teeth on edge. Once she'd given the server her breakfast order, Cora took another drink from her coffee. "So," she said, smiling around the mug, "you sleep with him yet?"

Derek choked on his drink, coughing into his mug, and winced as the liquid burned his mouth. "No."

"Good God, Derek, I figured you would have jumped on that as soon as possible."

Once he'd regained his composure, and wiped the coffee from his chin, he groaned. "I'm sure it would surprise you, and amuse you to no end, to learn I am not nearly as experienced as you think I am."

She scoffed. "Sure you're not."

He deadpanned. "You think I'm lying? Did my heartbeat stutter?"

"No, but you were always a good liar, Der. I bet your list is well into the double digits. I've seen the way  women fawn over you."

 

 

 

 

 

He sighed, letting her continue to ramble on while he held his tongue, unwilling to discuss it further with her. She was his sister, and he loved her, but the conversation was approaching danger levels of discomfort and very quickly.

"Are you even listening to me?"

"No." He waited until he saw his sister scowl at him. "We haven't slept together yet. I...I want to, just I'm- Jennifer was the last person I was with, and well that was really damaging for me." He stopped talking when the server brought their food to the table. Instead of digging into his scrambled eggs, he just pushed them around his plate. "I'm... I don't know how to explain it, Cora."

"You could have just said you were scared so you were taking it slow."

"And you'd have left it at that?"

"No, I would have teased the hell out of you, but you'd be less upset right now. Anyway, I'm going out with Isaac tonight." Derek quirked an eyebrow at her. "Not in that capacity. Well most of us are going out. You should come along."

"Uh huh. And where would be 'out'?"

"Probably dinner and a club."

"Pass."

She threw a balled up napkin at him. "Think about it. Dancing with Stiles could loosen you up."

"I'll think about it." He smiled at the thought.

  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Small droplets of ocean spray misted up and struck Stiles in the face. Though he winced, he did not stir, still fast asleep. Overhead, cawing seagulls announced their breakfast catches and fought over captured fish as if their prizes were part of the avian food buffet. 

One particularly strong wave sent enough water up the rock where it hit Stiles, finally rousing him. His brown eyes blinked several times in confusion as he stared up at the gray sky. After several moments, a total lack of recognition of his surroundings was enough to make him sit up and look around. Noticing where he was, he scrambled back away from the edge of the cliff. Heart pounding in panic, he took a few moments to get his bearings. "What in the-" He stopped short, when shivering, he glanced down and noticed his total lack of clothes. On instinct he tried to cover himself, but found naught but small pieces of rocks, moss and leaves.

He rubbed his head, still groggy from the sleeping pills he'd downed the night before. What? Just because he was a djinni and didn't need much sleep (post water-torture days notwithstanding), didn't mean that sometimes he didn't just crave it. Sometimes life was just too much, and he needed to not be awake for eight hours.

Fingertips smudged with soot, he surmised that he'd shifted while passed out, and he smacked himself in the forehead. How could he have forgotten to close the window after he returned from his pre-bedtime flight? _ Stupid, Stiles, you're so stupid. _ He had hundreds of questions on his tongue, but none seemed as pressing as the obvious.

Where the hell was he? All he could see was a lighthouse in the distance.

Gingerly, he rolled over, sitting back on his heels. On the beach down below, he didn't see anyone out for an early morning surf or swim. The weather, he supposed was too chilly, too gloomy for recreation at the waterfront, and thank God. His growling stomach told him there was no way he had enough energy to shift into any other form, and he really did not feel like having an Indecent Exposure charge added to his record.

Each step down the trail was more painful than the one before it. There was something to be said about a good pair of shoes. Walking without them sucked like a black hole. Eventually, and with very tender feet, he sighed in relief as he stepped onto the wet sand. Even the sting of the water on the soles of his feet hurt less than walking on rocks.

His eyes scanned the shoreline. Off to his left, he saw a residential area and began his journey towards it, keeping a trained eye for any piece of discarded clothing. That turned out to be folly, but several empty plastic grocery bags tied around his waist at least concealed himself enough so that, should he be spotted by cops, they had no grounds on which to arrest him. ' _ What ARE you talking about, Officer? This is a skirt, and I'd appreciate it if you'd respect my life choices.' Smooth, Stiles, real smooth. _

After at least an hour of walking, he stood in the rear of a beach house. The blinds and curtains were pulled back, and he could see no one inside. A quick, and quiet trip around front revealed no cars in the driveway. So, he returned to the back of the house and started testing the windows looking for an open one. The window above the kitchen sink jiggled open, and with great effort, he crawled inside. Before he began a search for food and, more importantly, a phone, he checked the rest of the house for occupants. There were none.

From a bedroom, he grabbed a pair of shorts and a sweater, far too big for his frame. The pair of flip flops, however, were too small, but beggars could not be choosers. The fridge was nearly empty, and everything that remained inside looked far past the point of being edible. Still the cabinets yielded a mostly empty box of Frosted Flakes, which he ate dry.

Unfortunately, the phone in the house was not connected, not that he was surprised. It was still too early for beach season, and why would someone keep a landline connected in the winter when they weren't around to use it? A waste of money, if you asked him.

How the hell was he going to get home? He had no money for food, and the Catch-22 of it all, if he were not starving, he could shift into a falcon, catch himself a nice fish, a sashimi breakfast of sorts, and fly East, though he had to admit, his internal compass (even in bird form) was still crap. For all he knew, he'd shift only to fly the wrong way.

As it stood, though, he was starving. Maybe a business in town, or a good Samaritan would let him use their cell phone just to call home. He really hoped they would.

  
  


*** * ***

  
  


As he took back his credit card from the cashier, Derek felt his phone ring in his pocket. It would be rude to answer while he completed his transaction, paying for both his and Cora's breakfasts, and he resigned himself to returning the call when they made it back to the car.

"Aren't you going to answer that?" Cora asked when they stepped outside.

"It can wait until I'm in the car."

"Okay, well that is the third missed call in the last five minutes. It's probably important."

He rolled his eyes at her. "Then it definitely should wait until I'm in the car." By the time they made it to the public parking lot four blocks away, the phone had rung four more times. "Oh for crying out loud!" Derek shut the car door harder than he intended. "Hello?" Scott's voice cut through the other line, talking at a speed Derek had come to associate more with Stiles than the Alpha. "Whoa, slow down. I can't-" He listened intently. "Okay, I'll meet you there in ten." Derek ended the call and dropped his phone into the center console. "Change of plans. I'm gonna drop you off at the loft. Scott has to talk to me."

"Just you? Well aren't you Mr. Important." She groaned.

"His words, not mine, Cora."

He soon found himself pulling into the parking lot at the Sheriff's station, stopping next to Scott's motorcycle. "I'm gonna tell you right now, I missed most of everything you said over the phone."

Scott didn't say a thing, just led them both inside, and after a quick stop at the front desk, they both sat inside John's office, waiting for him to return from the break room for coffee.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Stile-" John stopped as soon as he noticed that his son was not one of the two people in his office. "Scott? Something wrong?"

"I was at work this morning, so I missed the call." Scott pulled out his phone and opened his most recent voicemail, playing it on speaker for everyone to hear.

" _ Scott, I know you're at work, but man I hope you get this soon. Um, I wanted to call my dad, but I think he left his phone at home again, and I can't remember Derek's phone number at the moment. I shifted in my sleep, and I woke up by the ocean, naked on some rock. I don't know where I am, or how far away I am. All I know is I am outside a coffee shop, and I can see a lighthouse. I have no phone, and I am so hungry. I just want to go home. Please find me." _

Stiles' voice held a barely contained panic and was full of unshed tears, no doubt concealed from the person who was lending him the phone, the sound of which twisted Derek's stomach into knots. Though he'd never heard the calls Stiles made to Scott when he'd been sleepwalking that night Melissa and Agent McCall dragged him out of the coyote den , he imagined they had sounded similar.

"Can I see your phone, Scott?" John took the proffered phone and plugged the phone number into the search database on his desktop. A beep signaling the search had completed echoed through through the office some minutes later. "That number is out of Bandon, Oregon, of which there are two coffee shops in sight of the Coquille River Lighthouse."

Scott grabbed his jacket. "So a roadtrip then?"

"Here's hoping that person who lent Stiles the phone was actually in Bandon. Otherwise we're making an almost seven hour trip for nothing. It's ten. If we leave now that would put us in Bandon around five."

  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Stiles took a drink from his mostly empty large cup of plain coffee, staring out at the parking lot from the curb on which he sat clinging to the bag containing the last of his croissant. After a carefully crafted story about missing his Greyhound bus after a quick stop left him stranded, someone had taken pity on his dejected form a few hours ago and given him a few dollars. It had been enough for a coffee and something to eat. He was bored, and still shaken up over the whole thing.

Had Scott received his message? Did they figure out where he was? God he hoped so, because the longer he sat the more he let himself shrink back into his head, and that never led to anything helpful or healthy.

He buried his head in his knees, letting the late afternoon sun warm the top of his head. Honestly, the fact it was sunny out was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. The heat helped to warm his freezing bones, and though he'd tried several times to shift, he still couldn't. Since his ordeal with the hunters, it had been more difficult, even with smoke at hand. He only managed his falcon shape after a lot of work, but he found it necessary to calm him before he settled into bed.

His legs needed a stretch, so he stood, and made the same trip up and down 1st Ave he'd made twice so far that day. As he returned, a familiar and hideous black SUV came into view, and his whole body sagged in relief when his dad, Scott, and Derek climbed out.

John hurried over to him, folding him in his arms. Stiles hated that he'd made his dad worry...again. He supposed the whole situation had to remind the man of that night he'd sleepwalked thanks to the Nogitsune. John cupped his chin, turning his face side to side as though assessing for injury.

"Dad, I'm okay. I'm just hungry as hell."

"We brought you some clothes."

Stiles' shoulders sagged in relief.

Scott clapped him on the back and rested his hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Sorry we weren't here sooner. I literally could not check my phone until my shift was over."

Stiles patted Scott's hand. "Totally understandable, Scotty, my man. Work has rules that must be followed. I'm okay, really. Can we, can we go get some dinner?"

"Sure, Son."

 

 

  
  


As the other two men walked towards the car, Derek hung back and wrapped his arms around Stiles' waist. Despite what Stiles had said to his father and Scott, Derek saw the lie in Stiles' eyes, had heard the tiny uptick in his heartbeat. Over the years, Stiles had grown quite good at calming his heart rate to disguise the lies. Derek leaned in, and after he pressed a soft kiss to Stiles' forehead, whispered, "Are you okay, really?"

Stiles shook his head slightly.

"Scared?"

"Yeah."

Derek held him tighter, rubbing the back of Stiles' head with his hand, letting his fingers curl in the shaggy, wavy hair at the nape of Stiles' neck. "You'll be okay. We'll figure this out."

"You keep saying things like 'we'. You know just because I'm indebted doesn't mean you have to pour all your time into helping me. I can take care of myself."

He pressed their foreheads together. "I know that. I know you can. I do it out of love, not obligation."

Stiles nodded; he understood. "I know. Just starting to feel like a burden."

"No." Derek caressed his cheek, and Stiles leaned into the touch. "You're not a burden." He cupped Stiles' chin, turning his face towards him so they were eye-to-eye. "There is nothing, _ nothing _ I wouldn't do for you."

Stiles' eyebrows drew together in confusion, and tears welled up in his eyes. "Really?"

"Of course. Oh, I picked something up for you when we stopped for gas.” From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a small packet. “I thought they might help make you feel better.”

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles’ eyes lit up upon seeing the black packaging, and he leaned over and kissed Derek’s cheek. “Thank you.” He took out one of the black cigarettes, brought it to his lips and concentrated as hard as he could. Soon, the tip of his index finger began to glow. He held it against the wrapper where it soon lit the end. He sighed as he took a deep breath, savoring the way the spicy smoke reignited all his senses. Surely, after another one of these, he’d be able to shift and fly home if he wanted. Why ha dn't he thought to bum a smoke?

“ Come on." Derek reached down and linked their fingers together.

 

 

 

Once they reached the car, Derek handed the keys to John, and unspoken words passed between them, ones that both shared an understanding and a growing concern for Stiles.

  


 


	19. Help Me Make Sure I'm Still Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> “Bitter”- Huntar

After a stop at a diner in town, in which the three of them watched Stiles pile away more food than they'd thought possible for a non-werewolf, they'd gotten back on the road. As it stood, it was just after ten, and they all looked exhausted. John pulled into the parking lot of a roadside inn and got out, leaving everyone else bleary-eyed in the car. About ten minutes later, he returned and handed a room key to Derek in the back seat.

"You didn't have to pay for my room. I could-"

"Reimburse me when we get back to Beacon Hills if you feel you must. Everyone out."

  
  


  
  


  
  


With reluctance, Stiles found himself pulled away from Derek's room and into his father's. He indulged him for about half an hour, just long enough to watch the rest of  _ Sportscenter  _ with him before he stood up and walked towards the door. “Well, it's been fun. I'll see you in the morning.”

"Where-”

Stiles flashed a cheeky grin. “You didn't actually think I was going to sleep in here? Have you heard yourself snore? You should have that snoring checked out. I'm concerned about sleep apnea. Potentially very dangerous." He sighed in frustration when his dad deadpanned. “Oh come on, Dad. I'm an adult. Remember?”

"How could I forget? Look, I'm not trying to punish you. I'm your father; I want to make sure you don't disappear again. Call it parental obligation."

“ Dad, don't you think a werewolf is better equipped to notice the subtle noises of me shifting better than you?”

“ That's why we have Scott.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You do know that I will just sneak out as soon as you fall asleep, right?”

“ Yes, Stiles,” John pinched the bridge of his nose, “I am well aware of your disregard for rules.”

“ Well then. I am glad we're in agreement.” He patted his dad on the shoulder and walked out of the room. No sooner than he'd shut the door behind him, than the feigned cockiness he'd just shown his dad started to crumble. He continued on towards Derek's room, feeling the first twinges of fear creeping up his spine.

Having rage take over and making him act without control, shifting in his sleep, killing- these weren't things he thought he would have to deal with when he figured out what he was. Wishes and mischief sure. But not this.

He took a shaky breath and knocked softly on the door two rooms down. He waited with bated breath until he heard the latch open. Derek, who had apparently already changed for bed and fallen asleep, answered the door with a yawn, his hair askew with bed head.

Derek rubbed his eyes, eyes which quickly widened in surprise, and then his expression quickly turned to panic. "Stiles? I didn't bring any of my tea. Did I-"

Stiles put a finger to Derek's lips and cupped his cheek. "No, I swear this is all me." He stepped into the room, closing and latching the door behind him. "I wasn't asleep. Just watching TV with my dad. He wanted me to stay the night in his room.”

"I know. You could have; I wouldn't have been offended.”

"I just couldn't-"

"Stiles, it's okay."

He nodded. "I...I...need you."

Derek reached out in the total darkness of the room, and took his hand, pulling Stiles towards him. His hands came to rest on Stiles' hips. "What do you n-"

He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Derek's. "Just touch me."

"Where?"

"Everywhere. I need to make sure I'm still here, that I'm not drifting aimlessly to some new far off place. I need to ground myself right now, and the only way I can think of to do that is with you."

  
  


  
  


Derek trailed kisses along Stiles' jaw and nodded against his skin, content to remain silent. From where his hands sat on Stiles' hips, he ran them underneath Stiles' shirt and up his back. Stiles saw this as an invitation and tugged his shirt off over his head. Derek's fingers moved over his markings, he once again found the indelible ink warmer than the rest of Stiles' skin, glancing down to see each one beginning to glow faintly in the dark once he touched them, just like the last time. He'd done that; ignited that fire inside Stiles. This revelation flipped a switch in his mind. No longer did he feel anxious, not even a little apprehensive about taking things further with him. He wanted this, and clearly so did Stiles.

Derek pulled his shirt off, cupping the back of Stiles' head. He needed him closer, to taste as much of those lips as possible. So many times lately, Derek had felt the fear of losing him. First to the water, then to the hunters, and today. Well, he honestly thought they might not find him. He couldn't keep holding back, not when he kept being faced with the harsh reality of life: Sometimes it was cruel and took everything from you. He couldn't let himself live with the worst case scenario hanging over his head. If he did that, well then he knew he'd never be happy, not with Stiles, not with anyone, and especially not himself. He also couldn't let himself live wallowing in the pain of his past either.

No. Right then, there in that hotel room was all that mattered; nothing else existed.

Derek nipped at Stiles' lower lip and felt him shudder in his arms. Then, Stiles reached behind him to move Derek's hand from his hair to the nape of his neck, and keeping his hand atop Derek's, squeezed. _ Wha- Oh. _ An action Derek had initially thought to be a comforting gesture, was clearly more than that. At first, he only gave a light squeeze, but the whimper Stiles gave told him it was not enough. A firm pressure practically melted Stiles in his arms and had him fumbling with the drawstring on his sweatpants. He made sure to file that piece of information away, lest he accidentally turn Stiles into an aroused mess at a pack meeting.

Derek hadn't meant to step closer to the door, but with another movement forward, Stiles' back hit the wood with a thud. "Sorr-"

"Shh...it's good." Stiles mumbled against his mouth.

He dropped his head down to Stiles' neck to suck a mark into the skin, and without thinking, bit him, not hard, not enough to break the skin, but enough to have Stiles reaching for his pants. Those long fingers paused, giving Derek a chance to stop him. When he didn't, Stiles pushed the pajama pants to the ground. Derek shivered a little against him at the difference between his own skin and Stiles' feverish body temperature to be the one of the most intoxicating things he'd ever felt. The heat drove him wild, sending his hips rolling forward.

Stiles whimpered, trying to form words, but only managed a series of unintelligible syllables.

Derek grew bold in the dark, with those beautiful patterns of scrolls and ink glowing back at him and sank to his knees, wasting no time in taking Stiles into his mouth. He'd never done this before, but fuck he'd do his best to make it good for him. When Stiles' hips bucked forward on their own accord, surprising him, he pulled off and coughed.

"Mmph. Sorry."

He kissed the inside of Stiles' thigh. "S'okay." He held Stiles' hips in place with both hands; it helped him focus on trying things he himself liked, using the sounds Stiles made as cues. And what sounds they were- Fuck if Derek had ever heard anything sound so erotic in his life.

Stiles thudded the back of his head against the door. "Oh my god."

He hummed in response and felt a tug on his hair. "That bad?"

Stiles pulled him to his feet and captured his mouth again. "No. Just perfect." He gave Derek's shoulders a little shove towards the bed.

This was all the cue Derek needed to guide them both there in the dark, and when the back of his knees hit the bed, he sat, hands cradling Stiles' waist, and looked up at him. That nervousness he had yet to feel, began to creep up on him, and he felt a bit self-conscious.

 

 

 

 

Stiles sensed this and leaned down to kiss him. "Don't worry about it," he said caressing Derek's cheek. "I don't care you've only been with women so far. I've never been with someone I care about, so it's inexperience all around." Stiles pushed him back onto the bed, wrapping both arms around his neck, kissing him like he wanted to devour him. After the day, hell, month, he'd had, Stiles would have given everything to make this moment last for as long as possible. In the bleakness that had been the last few weeks, this was something good, and he did not want to give that up for anything in the world.

Reaching between their bodies, he took both of them into his spit-slick hand, and stroked them both, in motions far less than graceful, but if the sounds Derek made were any indication, the uncoordinated movements didn't bother him any. His back arched as Derek's nails trailed up his skin...no wait, those were claws, definitely claws. "You wanna stow those, Wolverine?"

Derek lifted his mouth from Stiles' neck. "Huh?"

Stiles smoothed a finger over Derek's now lupine brow. "You um...you partially shifted there."

  
  


  
  


  
  


Embarrassed, he dropped his head to Stiles' chest.

"Hey," he lifted Derek's head turning his chin so their eyes met, "don't do that. Just I don't heal as fast as you do." Stiles ran a thumb along his bottom lip, and soon his beta form slipped away. Stiles cupped his cheek, smiling as Derek nuzzled into it.

Determined not to let his nerves get the better of him, Derek planted a kiss at Stiles' collarbone, taking the skin between his now blunt teeth, gently, but enough to pull a filthy moan from Stiles' throat. He chuckled and moved down Stiles' torso, licking a broad stripe down his chest.

To his surprise, the once faintly glowing tattoos, brightened, illuminating the room in a wash of green and wait- since when were any of Stiles' marks orange? Later, they could figure that out later. The more skin his mouth and tongue touched, the brighter the marks glowed. As beautiful as that was to see, it was nothing compared to how Stiles looked, falling apart on the bed beneath him.

  
  


  
  


  
  


Stiles writhed on the bed, hands grasping for purchase in the sheets, Derek's hair, hell, his own hair. Every nerve was literally thrumming with energy, fire beneath his skin, like electricity or lava in his veins, different than it had ever been. If he were in full control of his mental faculties, he would worry about Derek's safety for fear of combustion, but he couldn't think straight, couldn't think at all. That spark felt like he was, for the first time, coming to life. This, that feeling, was addicting and he needed- "More."

He looked at him a moment, like he figured Stiles meant ' _ Get on with it already,' _ but when he moved away from his tattoos, Stiles' choked off sob caught his attention.

"No, don't stop...please," Stiles mewled, his back arching off the bed.

So he didn't, and within moments of getting his tongue back on Stiles' torso, Derek had turned him into a gasping shuddering mess as Stiles came in between them.

After several minutes, Stiles giggled, no joke giggled. "Oh my god, Derek. You...you- Fuck."

He grabbed a damp washcloth from the bathroom and wiped them off. When he started to redress, Stiles grabbed his arm.

"Oh no you don't. Come here." Stiles pulled Derek down on top of him. "I'm not greedy; I want you to have just as good a time. I need a minute." His breath was still coming in ragged pants. “I feel like I'm floating.” He trailed light touches over Derek's shoulders. "I don't know what the hell that was, the glowy sex electricity thing, but damn."

Derek nipped at his lower lip. "Looked like it."

"I know, and that was before sex. I can't- oh my god, I'm gonna die." He tossed his head back on the pillow. "Good way to go though." When, he regained his wits, he rolled them over, ready to savor and memorize Derek's body.

  
  
  
  


*** * ***

  
  


Yawning, Stiles padded towards the bathroom, his muscles aching in the most delicious way, and the soft smile on his face was one no could wipe off no matter how they tried. When he attempted to roll over earlier in the morning, a small beam of sunlight glinting in through the curtains, and found Derek's arms holding him tightly around the waist like he was a life-raft, he finally understood why casual sex could feel so empty.

For the first time he didn't feel used or pathetic afterward. If anyone ever tried to tell him sex was better with no strings attached again, he was throwing their sentiments back in their face.

He'd fallen back asleep, the warmth of Derek's body against his too comforting to ignore, only waking when he heard the shower turn on. The bathroom had already filled with steam, and though Stiles knew he needed a shower, he figured it probably best to wait until Derek had finished, knowing the distraction of being in there with him would cause him to lose track of time. He didn't want that, didn't need that. Still, showering with someone else, someone he was involved with, loved- well, it was on his list of things he'd always wanted.

Caution be damned.

Glancing above the curtain, he found the shower head and stepped into the opposite end of the shower. Derek, busy washing his hair, had his head under the water and seemed not to notice him, but thankfully, his body blocked most of the spray. As he rinsed the shampoo from his hair, Stiles stepped forward, and wrapping his arms around Derek's waist, planted hot open-mouthed kisses to the back of his neck.

Derek leaned back into the embrace. "Good morning," he said after wiping the water from his face and turning around. "I would have been finished shortly."

"Did you not want me to join you?" he pouted.

Derek blushed, and Stiles had to bite back the 'awww' which threatened to escape his mouth.

"That's not what I meant."

"Don't worry; you're shielding me from most of the water. It's only a mild discomfort."

Derek guided him to the back of the shower stall. The chilliness of the tiles made him shiver.

"That's good." Derek ran his fingers over the purple hickie on Stiles' neck, the little bite marks on his collarbone. "Sorry about those."

Stiles caught his hand. "I'm not." They shifted so he could wet and wash his hair, finishing the task in less than a minute. Cleaning up the rest of him took just as little time, and Derek stepped aside so he could exit the shower to dry off while he finished. "I think I heal faster than I did before all this, just...not as fast as you." He clicked his tongue. "Tsk, tsk. That is such a shame. You'd probably looked as wrecked as I do."

 

  
  


  
  


When Derek joined him outside the shower, he stared down at the towel hanging low around Stiles' waist.

"What?"

He trailed a finger over the tattoo on Stiles' left hip; he loved that one. He'd memorized the way it scrolled along his hip bone and onto his stomach, the way it looked like smoke on the wind. It definitely did not descend further than that. Yet, here Derek was, looking at its green ink dip below the towel. Derek tapped on the towel waiting for Stiles to stop him.

He didn't.

Derek gave the towel a little tug, and it fell to the floor. He couldn't help but stare. Yeah Stiles was naked, and it was the first time he was seeing him in the light; he'd be salivating if he wasn't staring at new markings adorning the tops of Stiles' thighs. He spun him around, just to see, and they connected to the intricate scrolls on his hips, encircling his legs and waist while leaving his ass unmarked. They sort of looked like a pair of indelible ink boxer briefs.

"What-" Stiles looked down and shrieked. "More? I don't want more. What if these things take over and cover all of me? I- Fuck, Derek."

Derek kissed him to stop what would probably be a stream of ramblings words, of which, only half would make sense. "If that happens, you know you could shift your appearance to hide them."

Stiles stared at him, wide-eyed, like the thought had never occurred to him before. "Huh. Suppose you're right. Hey, where are you going?" He called after Derek, who returned a few moments later with Stiles' phone. "What are you-"

Derek moved Stiles so that he had the best light, and focused the camera on his new tattoos.

"If you wanted a dick pick you could have asked."

Derek rolled his eyes and took several pictures of each, before handing the phone back. "There. You can get those to Deaton so he can translate them."

 

 

 

 

  
"Um..." Stiles paled. He didn't want any of them going to the former emissary. Especially after looking at them, and judging by location, they were meant to stay hidden. No, these were private. They had to be. He'd translate them himself, thank-you very much.

He'd just pulled on his pants and stepped out into the main room to search for his discarded shirt, only to find his dad scowling at him. _ Damage control, Stiles. _ He masked his embarrassment behind a cocky smirk. "Hiya, Pops."

"Stiles, what part of I want to make sure you don't disappear again didn't you understand?"

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "The part that left me wide awake in the middle of the night while you two slept blissfully unaware.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "Stiles, I don't have time-"

"I didn't disappear, okay. If you were really so worried about it, you could have asked Scott. He knew where I was."

John's eyes fell on Stiles' chest. "And I see you continued not sleeping in here."

Stiles grinned and tugged his shirt over his head. "I am not having that conversation with you. So how about we get this show on the road...after some pancakes?" He clapped his father on the back on his way out of the room, grabbing Derek's hand as he passed him, bringing it to his lips and planting a kiss across the knuckles. It was a gesture of affection, not to irritate his father further or anything.

Okay, so maybe it was half an act of affection, and half to annoy his dad- more like 30/70.

  
  
  


 


	20. Words Worth Choking On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Stiles has a panic attack in this chapter
> 
> Track Listing:  
> Scene 1: “Karma”- Sevendust  
> Scene 2 & 3: “Coming Undone”- Korn

"I don't know why she quit, Scott. She just did," Stiles said as he and Scott walked into their fifth period Physics class. "But c'mon, Dude, if you were in the dark about this supernatural cesspool of a town, would you want to stay working here after running into a feral omega on the full moon? I sure as hell know I wouldn't." He plopped down into his desk.

"Have you heard who they hired to replace her?"

"Nothing."

"That can't be a goo-"

"Okay class, get out your textbooks and turn to chapter fifteen."

Stiles looked up and groaned at the familiar face walking into the room like he owned the place. "You've got to be kidding me." He ducked his head, hiding behind the guy in front of him and waited for the hell that was two more months with one Adrian Harris as a teacher. He gave a quick glance to Scott and gestured to his neck, dropping his voice to a level he knew only Scott would hear. "What do you think? Zombie?"

Scott shrugged as Mr. Harris began writing sample problems on the board.

Without turning around, the teacher instructed the class to work out the problems. Stiles, though he hated Chemistry (With good reason), was pretty damn good at Physics. He supposed it had something to do with being good at math. It didn't take him long to find the answers, and though he prayed he wouldn't be called upon to answer--because he was just not ready for Harris' brand of assholishness today--he knew he would be.  

"Now, who can tell me the answer to problem A?" Mr. Harris surveyed the class, steeling his expression into that fucking sneer Stiles hated so much. He read his roster and chuckled. When he looked around the room, he did a double take on Stiles. "Stilinski, I have to say I did not miss you at all in my time away."

Stiles chortled. "Time away? You mean when you went AWOL? Can't say I'm thrilled to see you again either. In fact, the last detention I had was from you. "

"The new stoner approach to your appearance is surprising to say the least, though it probably would help your concentration."

"Outright slander. Perhaps you should keep that erroneous opinion to yourself and just teach."

Harris cocked his head to the side as though he were mulling over an insult in his head. In the end, it appeared discretion won out. "Problem A- Though I am sure your attention span of point three seconds-"

"A equals negative 1.08 times 106 meters per second squared."

Undeterred, Harris made him solve the other two problems, which Stiles managed with no problem. "Well, somebody had his dosage adjusted."

Stiles gritted his teeth, then bit his tongue so hard it bled. After a few seconds, he tamped down his rising anger. "Pretty sure your brand of ableism violates the anti-bullying policy."

Harris wrote a few more problems on the board, but continued right where he'd left off two years ago in his daily insults against Stiles. "Tell me, Mr. McCall, how do you stand being friends with this one? I know I'd probably have strangled myself by-"

Stiles bit back a chuckle at the man's ironic choice of words, considering the ligature scarring on his neck. "Looks like you already tried."

"People with attitudes like yours often die alone."

The smirk on Stiles' face spoke volumes. "Doing okay there. Thanks for your concern."

Harris grumbled about how he didn't count some girl Stiles paid to go prom with him a legitimate relationship.

"Ha! No danger of that." When Harris continued, Stiles had finally had enough. _Somebody needs to gag that bastard. Karma would be a good candidate. Let him choke upon his words._

Stiles gave up responding and worked on the problems assigned. He didn't have the energy to fight with the guy, and he didn't want to be in a bad mood for his date later. Since he was so focused in completing his work instead of letting the man's words fester in his mind, he didn’t notice the pulsing thrum of energy in his veins. Not only that, he failed to see Mr. Harris open his bag of pretzels.

After a particularly loud chomp into his snack, Mr. Harris began coughing. Then the coughing turned to wheezing, and then to a desperate gesture to his throat, the universal sign for choking. While one of the students in these front row called for help, asking if anyone knew the Heimlich, Stiles stared at him in shock.

He hadn't tapped his mouth when he had the thought come to mind. He was sure of it, and yet, exactly what he said should happen was occurring right before his eyes. Nearby, he could hear Scott talking to him, trying to snap him out of it, but to Stiles, Scott sounded like the adults from  _Peanuts,_ his words indecipherable.

He watched in horror, and it really was in horror (despite how much he hated the guy, Stiles definitely did not want him dead, just to get his comeuppance. That's all. He may have joked about killing people all the time, but now that he'd actually taken someone's life, he found the idea abhorrent), as one of his lacrosse teammates tried several times to dislodge the fiendish snack food from Harris' throat with the Heimlich maneuver. When he finally succeeded, the teacher was unconscious and blue. Stiles couldn't watch as CPR was performed while they waited for the paramedics.

With the rest of the class was distracted by the scene unfolding in front of them, Stiles fled the room. The hallway was filled with curious students and faculty, intrigued by shouts for help from inside the Physics classroom. Stiles didn’t let that stop him as he plowed through the throng of people and crashed into the men's room at the end of the hall, and after finding the room empty, locked the door behind him.

He slid down the wall in the corner and buried his head in his knees. His whole body trembled with the realization that what happened was his fault, all his doing. He’d hoped for karma to, for lack of a better word, smite the man--to gag him--and it happened right in front of him. How had he failed to notice his personal wishes and ideas no longer took the gesture of him tapping his lips to come into fruition?

More and more, he found himself becoming scared of what he was, of the things he could do. A werewolf? Well, sure they had increased healing time and strength, speed and heightened senses, but when not on the full moon, they were more or less completely in control. No new powers just showed up. The only rule; don’t take innocent lives or you will have run in’s with hunters.

Stiles? He sure as hell felt like he was barely holding it together, power hardly contained and even less understood. Was this feeling, the panic, the fear, a result of saving Derek’s life? Of taking a life?

If his mind could check out while he slept, causing him to shift and float away, if he could no longer be in control of his mind awake...how was that any way to live?

Desperate for answers, knowing none would be found, he clawed at his scalp in an attempt to get the sight of Harris’ unconscious body out of his head. And then…

The shallow breathing started.

Stiles shook, gasping for enough air to stay in the moment, to not pass out like he had so many times before. But the what-ifs derailed him. What if Harris didn’t recover? Well, Stiles’ body count was mounting, and the realization of that terrified him. What if Scott just knew it was his fault? Would he tell the pack Stiles was too much of a liability? Surely neither Scott, his best friend, brother even if not by blood, nor Derek, desperately in love, would suggest it, but would anyone else?

He reached for the phone in his pocket, needing to hear the voice of safety, only to remember he’d left it in the classroom. With nothing to ground him, Stiles let the waves of panic wash over him until the edges of his vision closed in on him, and he passed out.

  
  


*   *   *   *   *

  
  


Stiles would have thought that his hour long panic attack in the bathroom would have all but drained him of the necessary energy to accomplish anything at lacrosse practice. He was wrong. Instead, he took out his frustration on the balls, the net, his teammates. He was so focused, so precise that afternoon that Coach actually asked what he'd done with Bilinski, because he certainly wasn't the one on the field.

Stiles laughed it off, feigning just a good day, but he knew his frustration was the only thing keeping him together.

When practice was dismissed, Scott came over and clapped him on the back. "Looks like your argument with Harris gave you motivation."

Stiles flinched at the man's name. He needed to ask Scott what he thought. "Um Scott, that was my fault, what happened to him."

"Are you kidding? He choked on a pretzel. Could have happened to anyone."

"No, you don't understand. I hoped for something like that to happen, and it did.”

“Stiles, I don’t think it works that way. It was probably just a coincidence.”

Stiles scanned the locker room for something innocuous he could make happen that had the least chance of injuring anyone. _That stick of deodorant in Danny’s locker needs to fall down. No reason. It would just be funny._ He turned to Scott. “So, I just wished for Danny’s deodorant to fall out of his locker. Just you watch.”

“Stile-” Scott’s words were cut off as the item teetered on the edge of the locker before crashing to the ground. “Um… I think that was more gravity than you.”

_Scott needs to trip over his own feet, but not get hurt. He never believes me. It would serve him right._

“So, I’m sorry.”

“About?”

'Wait for it.”

"What?”

Stiles turned down the row with their lockers, and Scott promptly stumbled over well...nothing. He bumped into the rows of lockers and rubbed his bicep where it collided with the metal. “Sorry about that.”

Scott stopped and stared at him. “You made me trip?”

“I included the requirement that you not get hurt, but yeah. So, now do you believe me?”

“Yeah, but,” he furrowed his brows, “why would you wish that?”

“It’s not like I expected anything to happen, Scott! I usually have to _do_ something in conjunction with the thought or statement.”

“Do what?”

“That, my friend, is privileged information that only I know. Sorry, can’t have you interfering sometimes.”

Scott did not look pleased, and Stiles breathed a sigh of relief that he decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

"Well, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“And if he isn’t?” Stiles turned his face away from his best friend. The last thing he needed was for the guy to see the fear in his eyes.

“Did you mean for it to happen, or were you just waxing hypothetical?”

“No, of course not, Scott. I hate the guy, but… he doesn’t need to die. Just go far, far away where I can never see him again.” When he looked up and caught sight of his reflection in the small mirror inside his locker, he froze, tried to steady his breathing, and turned around to look behind him. No, there was nothing behind him, but yet, in the mirror he stared at two versions of himself.

He recognized the present, sweaty, flushed-faced version from practice. But the other? Red skinned with markings, some darker red, others burnt orange, and some still- black, taunted him. Flames instead of smoke danced around his body. His hair, no longer the messy mop it usually was, looked to be made of fire itself. But his eyes… his eyes now, were empty, black-rimmed, fiery holes devoid of his usual snark, the mirth or even the panic that always teetered at the edges.

His breath caught in his throat, and once more, Stiles glanced over his shoulder. Still empty. In the mirror though, his second reflection didn’t just mirror the actions of the normal visage. No.

It interacted with him.

Every time he moved, it moved, but in ways altogether different. If Stiles scratched his face, the reflection kissed him. When he stretched his arms above his head,he found himself wrapped in a fiery embrace, one he could feel. He watched, as his doppelgänger, taller than himself by at least four inches, bent down to whisper in his ear.”

“Get a good look,” it said, “take your fill. Memorize the way we look, the way we smell.”

As if on command, Stiles took a deep breath. His scent had changed. Now, cinnamon and myrrh blended with the smell of ash, and the slightest hint of sulfur filled his nostrils.

“You can’t run from this. No matter what you do...you cannot avoid this.. You’ll love it, the lack of rules, no master. All the control, all the power will be in our hands. To burn without discretion, deal out punishment, retribution as you see fit- We will rule like gods, Stiles. The way _you_ always should have.”

He recognized the faint crimson filter through which he saw the events unfolding before him. That bass timbre on the fiery voice was the same one he’d heard the night with the hunters, the night he took not one life, but four. The burning, deep within in his veins, he’d felt that before, but then only in a nightmare. The feeling of it, he hated it. It made him feel like he was being consumed, willing and ready to burn alive anyone around him. However, seeing the catalyst for the sensation in front of him was downright terrifying. Those hands, enveloped in flames, resting on his shoulders, the fingers tapping the sides of his neck, felt like a yoke, or worse, a noose.

“Stiles, are you okay?”

He blinked, waiting for the red to recede to no avail. He hadn’t even realized he’d zoned out on him. “No, I…” That was it; he could no longer stand it and fled the locker room bound for the safety of his bedroom.

  
  


*   *   *   *   *

  
  


The whole drive home, Stiles kept checking his reflection in the rear-view, not at all surprised to see his new image following him. Once inside, he checked in every mirror they had. Each one showed him, but also himself on fire. It was a sight he thought he’d never get used to seeing, and what had it- well, _he_ , meant when he said it was unavoidable, that he’d become what he saw in his reflection?

Would he one day burst into flames and be all powerful as the thing suggested? Frankly, he hoped not. Stiles didn’t want that. He had finally starting to accept what he was, only for the game to change. Fuck it all.

As he ascended the stairs, bound for the bathroom and the shower he desperately needed (he reeked, okay?), he could not help but watch himself in the small mirrors that lined the stairwell. His mother had hung them, and neither he, nor his father seemed bent on taking them down. She’d once said something about them reflecting natural light from the living room windows up into the dark stairway. As a child, he’d believed her, but now all he could see in them were flames. Flames and an all-knowing smirk.

Being surrounded by those mischievous grins and the secrets hidden behind those smiles, had a way of getting into his head, replacing his awareness with the red screen from earlier. Like a two-way mirror in an interrogation room, he watched as dozens of sinister versions of himself talked back to him.

In a cacophonous chorus, each image spouted rhetoric as though they were calling him to the dark side, trying to turn him Sith. Time seemed to stand still, or maybe it was just him, stuck there on the seventh step of the flight of fourteen, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

“Don’t try to fight it, Stiles. The quicker you give in, the better you will feel.”

Give in? Screw that. He would fight against that image of himself, one he was quickly deciding to be all in his head, a figment of his own making, created to punish himself. Ever since he’d come around to the shocked expressions of his pack and found out how he’d killed someone, a crushing sense of guilt fluttered, never ceasing, in the pit of his stomach. Maybe he should...just let it consume him.

“Don’t think like that. You’ll miss all the fun, and we will have fun. The destruction we can bring together, if you’d just give in, will feel like nothing you’ve ever experienced.”

Stiles crumpled on the on the step, hands clamped over his ears. He couldn’t listen anymore. “Get out of my head!”

Instead of complying, they only spoke louder, falling into unified words of persuasion. The louder they spoke, the more Stiles shook. It was exhausting trying to battle with himself. Fighting an outside force was one thing, but dealing with an internal conflict, well, he’d had lots of experience with that, and it was the most draining thing in the world.

Distracted by the noise, coming in decibels so high, he swore his ears would bleed, the searing heat beneath his skin went unnoticed, unchecked, and unchallenged until he suddenly leapt up from where he sat, tearing up the stairs for the bathroom.

Inside, he gawked at his reflection, only one this time. He was burning, and unlike his new double, his face looked anything but pleased. He glowed, bright red, and white hot, pieces of skin long since singed through, clung to him like black pieces of crumpled paper. Though the flames caused him no pain anywhere else, his head pounded, feeling as though a thousand tiny blacksmiths hammered away at anvils inside his skull.

Ripping back the shower curtain, he cranked the shower to full, the water coming down in ice cold, forceful jets. In seconds, he’d shed all his clothes and thrown himself into the spray.

He swore he could hear the water hiss as it steamed away from his skin.

  
  


*   *   *   *   *

  
  


Having reached Stiles' voicemail three times already, Derek knocked on the front door to the Stilinski residence, surprised when it swung open from the force of his knock. “Stiles, you in here?” Of course he was in there somewhere. The Jeep was out front and his backpack had been flung haphazardly onto the couch.

Receiving no response, he ventured up the stairs, taking note of how the mirrors seemed to all be askew, when the unmistakable sound of the shower came to his attention. Deciding to wait for him to finish, Derek walked into to Stiles’ bedroom, toed off his shoes and flopped onto the bed. They didn’t have a set time for their date tonight. Just dinner, and it wasn’t as though either had made reservations somewhere. No, just wings and lawn bowling at the local sports bar and grill in town where they could arrive at anytime.

However, when the two minutes of shower time ticked away to four, to six, to seven, Derek grew worried. He knocked on the bathroom door. “Hey, Stiles. You okay?” There was no response, so he cracked the bathroom door, just planning to stick his head in and try again, only to find the curtain pulled back and Stiles unconscious in the shower.

Though his heart rate spiked at the sight, Derek couldn’t help but scold him, even if Stiles probably couldn’t hear him. “Damn it, Stiles.” He shut off the water, wondering how his boyfriend had managed to lose track of time so badly that he confused two minutes with seven.

Yet, he stopped, frozen as his eyes wandered over Stiles’ bare skin. No longer green, every one of his markings stared back at him in a dark orange ink. What did that mean, and what had caused it? He tugged his body out of the tub, and grabbing a towel, hurried to dry his damp skin, following up with the hair dryer for good measure. They’d been over this, Stiles telling him what to do, how best to rouse him, and when none of that worked, Derek carried him into his bedroom.

He pushed him to the far side of the bed against the wall, covering him with all the blankets he could find, _including_ the electric blanket. Throughout the room, Stiles had placed candles. Derek knew he used their smoke to help him focus while he did homework, whittled, practiced shifting, or hell just about any time. Unfortunately, there were no matches. Then again, he supposed Stiles didn’t need them. He hurried downstairs, grabbing the fireplace lighter from atop the mantle. Once all the candles had been lit, he stripped down to his undershirt and boxer briefs and slid in next to him.

Stiles was ice cold, not that Derek expected anything less, but as the minutes went by and Stiles began to warm up, he startled mumbling. Incoherent words of burning and ash, false reflections and taunts soon filled the silence. Worried his boyfriend had somehow managed to actually give himself hypothermia, Derek held on tighter.

Finally, over two hours later, Stiles came round; the first words out of his mouth made no sense, whatsoever to Derek.

“Sorry, about the carpet, Dad. I’ll find some way to replace it.”

He felt it best to indulge him. “What about the carpet?”

“The burned bits on the stairs.”

Derek hadn’t seen any burned carpet, nor had he smelled anything that would indicate it had been on fire at any point. “Stiles, the carpet is fine.”

That was the end of the conversation, but ten minutes later, when Stiles’ eyelids fluttered open, he turned towards Derek. Instead of the emerald colored irises that usually followed one of his water induced blackouts, the eyes staring back at Derek glowed a rusty hue. Confusion set in his eyes, Stiles curled into his boyfriend’s chest like it was a security blanket.

“Stiles, what happened? Why would you stay in the water that long?”

“Had to.”

Derek didn’t really have the patience to deal with this, and briefly considered giving a command. Common sense won out though. “I don’t understand.”

“I was on fire.”

“Like a fever?”

“No.” Stiles picked his head up and stared down at him. “I was the fire. You should have seen me. It was terrifying. A shower was the only thing I could think of to put out the flames, but they kept coming, and I guess… I ran out of time.”

The fear and gravity in Stiles’ eyes told Derek not to question or try and dissuade him from his line of reasoning. He was adamant that he’d been aflame, and Derek was certain that nothing he said about how the house bore no evidence of fire, how Stiles didn’t even smell of smoke, would change his mind. So, after a soft kiss to his temple, Derek changed the subject. “What happened to your tattoos?”

“What?”

Derek ran his fingers along the markings on Stiles’ chest. “Look.”

Stiles glanced down, and catching sight of them scrambled to sit up and take in the sight of the rest of them. “Holy shit! I have no idea what happened to them. And...my eyes?”

“Orange.”

Stiles blinked several times, trying to steady his breathing. “And now?” He looked at Derek.

“Brown.” When Stiles visibly relaxed in front of him, he changed subject once more. “How you feeling?”

“Starving.”

“Take out?”

Stiles took a deep breath. “No. You promised to take me out, and I’m holding you to it.” He rolled over Derek and out of bed, busying himself with the mundane task of dressing himself, fixing his hair, finding his wallet, and so on.

Clearly, he was trying anything to keep his mind off the terrifying vision he’d experienced only hours before.

  
  


*   *   *   *   *

  
  


Stiles downed the rest of his soda, setting it on the ledge outside the restaurant. It was a beautiful night, and Dax’s Bar and Grill was crowded, the way it usually was on evenings such as this one. The lawn of the place was a popular spot for Happy Hour, good food, and a low-key date night. All around them, people enjoyed themselves with bowling, bean bag toss, bocce ball, and over in the corner, a particularly competitive game of beach volleyball.

“So,” Derek twirled the pallino over and over in his hand, “there is a group over there looking for a couple more people to join their team for the next game of volleyball. What do you say?”

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at him. “Have you seen me play volleyball? I’m...well not very good.”

Derek leaned in, placing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the pulse point beneath Stiles’ ear. “Have you tried playing since your birthday?”

He shuddered. “You can’t _do_ that, D and expect me to be able to focus.” He gave Derek’s chest a playful shove. “But no, I haven’t.”

“Well then,” Derek tossed the pallino towards their unfinished game of Bocce, “shall we go?” He grabbed Stiles' hand, and they walked over to the sand pit.

“Great! Another tall guy.” One of their new teammates looked more than thrilled to have someone else who could potentially spike the ball.

Within a few minutes, the game was underway. Though he had improved quite a bit with his djinni powers, Stiles was still not good by any stretch of the imagination. He managed to get the ball to one of his teammates any time it came to him, so there was that. Derek--the show-off--however, more than picked up his slack.

They won the first game of the best-of-three series handily, and while everyone took breaks for water, or more commonly a round of drinks, Stiles slurped down half of his refilled glass of soda. Beer in hand, Derek sidled in next to him at the hightop table he occupied, slipping an arm around his waist.

“Feeling better?”

In truth, yes, Stiles felt a bit better. However, there was a strange weight upon his shoulders, a tightness around his wrists that he hadn’t noticed before he saw his new reflection. “Um. Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“They rehired Harris for the Physics position.”

Derek winced. “I’m sorry. You know, I thought Jennifer killed him.”

“So did most everyone. Not me though. Corpus delicti and all that jazz.” Stiles swallowed hard. “Well, something happened in class today. It was his first day back, and he was a jerk to me. Full on asshole. I didn’t think anything by it when I hoped he’d choke on his words, but he did, Derek. I almost killed him, and I wasn’t even trying.”

Derek rubbed soothing circles between his shoulder blades. “I understand. Believe me, I do.”

What he needed to say, desperately wanted to say died on his tongue. How could he flat out tell Derek, ‘ _Something’s...gone wrong with me. Ever since I was kidnapped, I feel different, and I’m not sure how to describe it. It doesn’t feel right, and now- I didn’t notice before, but it feels like a noose, like shackles_ ’? Somehow, he didn’t think the guy would take it well.  _Uh, Derek, so yeah I think I’m losing my mind...again._

Derek turned Stiles to face him. “That ever happen before? I mean, I know you can grant your own wishes.”

“Yeah, but that requires a gesture. I didn’t do that this time. This never happened before.”

“Whatever it is, you’ll figure it out.” He kissed Stiles’ forehead. “Let’s go finish our game.”

As it turned out, the other team was pretty much a disaster, and only two games were needed. Derek paid their tab. “I was thinking we head over to the Mad Hatter for a little. I’m strangely in the mood to dance.”

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at him. “Are you now?”

“I know. It’s weird.”

“No, I’m actually pretty tired, but… my dad’s working overnight tonight. Do you want to stay-”

Derek blushed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I was actually thinking of asking you the same thing.”

“You’re adorable when you blush. You know that?” Though he laughed, Stiles didn’t say the real reason behind his request.

He was afraid of sleeping alone, afraid he’d wake up somewhere else, afraid he’d combust in his sleep, afraid of hurting someone else…just plain afraid.

He was always afraid now.

  
  
  
  


 


	21. Go Away and Let Me Burn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing: “Nothing Left To Say”- Imagine Dragons

Stiles climbed out of the Jeep, bleary eyed and cranky. Despite not needing as much sleep, even the djinn had limits to how long they could go without sleep. Two weeks. He’d been awake for two weeks straight, and it had become harder and harder to hide that fact from everyone, especially Derek. Kind of difficult to pretend to be asleep around the werewolf when he lay right next to him in bed. After the first couple nights, and some difficult questions, Stiles might have, quite possibly (read: totally did) have concealed his heartbeat as one sleeping soundly. He also had Derek sleeping soundly too (and he was by no means proud of the fact).

He yawned, walking over to Derek, who handed him a paper mug of coffee. “Large coffee, two sugars, splash of cream with a shot of hazelnut.”

Stiles kissed his cheek. “Thanks. Should we go in?” He pointed to the door of the animal clinic.

“ Nope. Scott said to wait for him.”

He groaned, scrubbing his hand down his face. “Why does he have to be involved in this? I don’t need him worrying about me more than he already does.”

Derek rolled his eyes at him. “He’s the alpha, and tell me you don’t feel a bit of a pull to listen to him now you’re supernatural.”

Stiles took a long drink. “Nope. Sorry. I think the life debt overrides that.”

“ Oh really?” He quirked an eyebrow at him. “So if I said you have to let him come in…”

“ Don’t be a dick.”

“ Fine. I think you should let him come in, because he’s your friend, and cares about you.”

Stiles cocked his head to the side and dropped it onto Derek’s shoulder . “So thoughtful.”

Finally, after another ten minutes of waiting, Scott pulled up, not on his dirt bike, but in Melissa’s car with Kira, Lydia and Isaac in tow.

“Okay, Scott being here I get, Derek. But, why, _ why _ , does he have to bring most of the pack with him?”

“ Heya, Stiles.” Scott led the group through the doors where they found Deaton waiting.

“ Ah good. You’re all here.” Deaton opened the gate, thus breaking the line of Mountain Ash preventing the wolves from crossing.

“ You know that thing does nothing for Lydia, Kira, and me right?”

Deaton smirked and closed the gate, gesturing for Stiles to try and cross. When he tried to open it, he found himself unable to push it open.

“ What the hell? Look Doc, I know Mountain Ash does nothing to me. How do you think I keep wolves out of my room when I want to be alone?”

“ Then by all means, Mr. Stilinksi, lift the latch and open it.”

Stiles wrapped his hands over the top of the gate fumbling for the lever on the other side. As his fingers hit the metal support bar just under the ledge, he recoiled and hissed in pain. On instinct, Derek flinched as though he were about to fight, but Stiles waved him off. “Motherfucker.” He tried to shake his hands in an attempt to assuage the pain. “You know, a Mountain Ash barrier just prevents werewolves from crossing. It doesn’t fucking burn them.” He stared down at his hands, red, fingertips slightly blistered. “Iron. Nice touch.”

“ Well...let’s just say I’m more afraid of the supernatural entities with iron ‘allergies’ so to speak than I am any werewolf. They’ll just kill me. You… the fae, demons...you all mess with our minds. Personally, I’m not really a fan of that.” He opened the gate so everyone could join him in the back.

See? That right there, that cocky vagueness with a slight air of holding back a fuckton of information- Number one reason why Stiles never liked the guy. And now, his hands hurt. Didn’t the guy know he didn’t heal lightning fast like wolves? Surely, he did. Plus, Stiles had tried to wish his pain away before. It didn’t work.

Still, the longer he stared at his hands, the more he felt the pain wicking away. He was about to score one more point in the perks of Djinni-hood column until he realized Derek’s hand was resting on the back of his neck, pulling the pain away from him. “You don’t have to do that, Derek. I can deal with it.”

“ Mmm, I know,” he said pressing a kiss to the side of his neck, “doesn’t mean I don’t want to do it.”

In the exam room, the pack stood waiting for them. “Why do they all need to be here, Scott?”

“ They’re pack.

Stiles offered up a nervous chuckle. “No offense guys, but this isn’t really any of your business.”

Scott ignored his last comment and turned to Deaton. “So you said you have the rest of his markings translated.”

“ Okay, everyone stop,” Stiles huffed. “What the remainder of the rules say is between Derek and me.”

Deaton shook his head. “That would be true if they said anything about the Life Debt.”

“ And?” Scott’s eyes looked hopeful.

“They don’t. The bit on your  rib cage talks about classes of djinn.”

Scott sat down on the counter. “Classes?”

“ He means colors of djinn, Scott.” Stiles groaned; he just wanted to go home.

“ That’s right, green are the youngest or lowest class, like Stil-.”

Without missing a beat, Stiles cut him off, “Orange.”

Deaton placed a large tome on the examination table. “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

Stiles worried his bottom lip between his teeth. “They’re not green anymore, Doc.” He lifted one corner of his shirt to show the burnt orange ink beneath.

This bit of information seemed to intrigue the man. “I see, and how did that happen?”

“ Not sure.” Stiles shrugged.

“ I mean, what happened before you noticed the change?”

Weighing his words carefully, Stiles put the best spin on the day’s events as he could. “I passed out in the shower. Before that… I may have accidentally caused my Physics teacher to choke on his pretzel. I swear it was not on purpose. To grant my own wishes used to require a gesture, but I didn’t do that this time.”

Deaton flipped through the book. “I see. Why do I get the feeling you’re not being entirely forthcoming with this information?”

“ Because you’re the king of being mysterious as shit. What about the other markings?”

He read down his translation, skipping to the part that was now relevant upon seeing Stiles’ change in djinni class. “Stiles, have you noticed any other changes?”

Stiles clammed up, and Derek squeezed his hand.

  
I think you should tell him. Maybe it will help him translate the new marki-”

Stiles leveled him with a pointed glare.

“ I see. You didn’t tell him about them.”

Stiles stared at his shoes. “No. I’ve been working on them myself.”

“ Why? Look, I made sure the pictures didn’t show anything when I took them.”

“ Felt wrong.”

Deaton interrupted their aside, “What new markings? Because I am still missing Rule Five of the Djinni Contract and the Special Circumstance that could result in your freedom. Can we see them?”

“ No.”

Scott laughed, “Why not, Stiles? He’s trying to help.”

“ Okay, I’ll be frank. One, due to their location, showing you my new tattoos requires dropping my pants. Standing here with my dick out is taking our friendship to a whole other level. Not sure I want to do that. Two, also given the location, it feels like they are not ones I should be showing people. They feel private. So no. I am not showing you, nor am I sending you pictures of them. Like I said, I am translating them myself.”

“ But Derek’s seen-”

Stiles smacked himself in the forehead. “We’re dating; we’ve slept together. That kind of activity requires a certain level intimacy and nakedness that might result in seeing said markings.”

“ Come on. We’re trying to help.” Scott took a step forward and reached for Stiles. Stiles, however, panicked and jumped back.

He gave a subtle wave of his hand, pushing everyone in the room back away from him, not violently, just a shove to get them out of his space. Then he flicked his fingers away from his body and towards the floor with force. Orange smoke now swirled all around him, protecting him. “I said no, Scott. Because you’re my best friend, and I love you, Man, I am not going to give you the ‘no, means no’ speech. Now, I know Doctor Enigma has translated more than he’s saying. So spill it, Doc. Why do you need to know what happened to cause my ink to change colors?”

Deaton leveled him with a look full of gravity. “What did you see before passing out in the shower?”

Stiles stared at him, unblinking, with his brave face on. He didn’t want to say a word, especially given that he could see his new reflection in the small medical mirror on the counter. The thing had grown cocky in the last week, waving at him, winking when it felt so inclined. Anytime he used the bathroom, it would actually talk to him as he washed his hands. Little by little, he felt his resolve, his hold on his identity slipping. It was part of the reason he refused to go to sleep. By now, he felt he was single-handedly keeping the coffee trade in business.

He was obstinate; the doc would be getting no information from him until he showed his hand. “You first. Why do you need to know?”

Deaton sighed in frustration, “Notice any changes in your appearance that aren’t visible to everyone else, things only you could see? I’m not talking about things covered by clothing. Like your shadow, or maybe your heartbeat...your reflection perhaps.”

The way the man lingered over the last option told Stiles he knew exactly what Stiles was afraid of saying. Instead of leaving it at that, however, he kept pressing.

“ I can see by the change in your posture you have. I bet if I ask one of the werewolves in the room, they’d tell me your heartbeat changed, maybe you smell like anxiety now. Do you feel like maybe there is a weight on your shoulders, a yoke, perhaps? Maybe your hands feel bound.”

He had him; the man had Stiles right where he wanted him, and it was terrifying .

Every reflective surface in the room suddenly filled with his secret doppelg ä nger. Stiles gulped, eyes widening in panic. _ No, no, deep breath. Don’t show your cards. _ Still, as he watched the fiery version of himself start laughing  at his distress  like a maniacal movie villain, he found it harder and harder to stay in the moment, especially when he looked down to see the skin of his arms glowing as it began to incinerate from the the inside out. The breaking point came when he saw them all pretending to hang themselves with an invisible noose.

Survival instincts took over and he flicked at the smoke around him, thickening it into an opaque plume of smoke, which ran from floor to ceiling, completely obscuring him. He collapsed onto the floor, clamping his hands over his ears, burying his face in his knees, and he stayed that way for several minutes until he heard, or at least thought he heard Derek’s voice. The fact that he maniacally rose to his feet and brushed away some of the smoke so Derek could enter confirmed it.

Before speaking, Derek waited for Stiles to fill back in the hole of smoke. Stiles closed his eyes, muttering under his breath, and moments after, a whoosh sound echoed through the tube of smoke.

“ What was that?”

Panting, Stiles clutched at his chest. “You used a command.” The expression on his face reeked of insult.

“ Sorry, but unique circumstances. What was that?”

“I made it  sound proof in here. He’s right.”

“ Who is? Deaton?” Stiles nodded, unable to meet his eyes. “What happened?”

“ Aside from catching on fire? My reflection is always on fire now, taunting me, telling me I can’t stop the change. I don’t understand.” He dropped his head onto Derek’s shoulder.

“ Why didn’t you tell him about your marks? Is it really because of where they are?”

Stiles looped his arms around Derek’s waist. “Yes and no. I’ve been able to translate a little bit, and they are meant for my eyes and as few other pairs as possible. Look…” He unbuttoned his jeans, pulling them down enough to show him a section near the inside of his left thigh. “Can you see what it looks like?”

“ Mmhm.”

  
  


“Stop looking at me like you want to eat me.”

Derek rolled his eyes. “You just pulled down your pants...give me a break. But yeah, I can see it. What does it mean?”

Stiles swallowed hard, “It’s how to kill me... quicker than water. ”

Pain crossed Derek’s face. “Looks like a dagger.”

“Not just any knife will work. It re quires a bit of magic.  There’s an incantation needed to prepare it. But then,  an iron  dagger straight to the heart.” He could feel the bile rise in his throat. “Not the kind of information I want that man knowing. I have _ never _ trusted him. For all I know, he’ll restore the balance by taking me out.” He refastened his pants.

"I won't let him." Derek kissed his forehead.. “And you told me because you trust me.”

He nodded. “Just in case… I have it in a box under my bed. You’ll know which one I mean.” Stiles clasped his hands over his mouth and took a deep breath.  _ Inhale, hold, exhale. Inhale, hold, exhale. Cool your  _ jets. After a minute, he felt calmed enough so that he could speak to Deaton rationally. Then, he turned and slashed at the smoke. “Yes, I have seen all that, Deaton. Now cut the crap. What does it mean?”

Deaton turned to Derek. “That weight on his shoulders and hands is him unconsciously rebelling against the Life Debt.”

“ What does that have to do with me?”

“ You aren’t doing your part. You need to control him.”

Derek scowled, “Deaton, I told you before, I’ll tell you again. He is not a slave! I am not going to order him around just because some book tells me that’s how it has to be. Djinni or not, he’s still a person, and I am not taking away his agency just to get him to do my bidding, my dirty work...perform favors.”

“ Whoa, Derek,” Scott cut in, “I don’t think you need to be that dramatic. Simple stuff like your laundry should be enough, yeah Doc?”

He leveled Scott with a glare, before turning his attention to Deaton. “All the same. You are asking someone who has been used and abused by hunters, manipulated by a dark druid who used magic to get me into bed with her, forced to spear one of my betas through the chest by power hungry alphas, and thrown to the proverbial wolf by a misguided sixteen year-old werewolf with a plan that included using me to commit murder by werewolf bite to now do the same to someone else. Someone, who let me remind you, spent months under possession of a psychotic fox, involuntarily used to kill dozens. I’m sorry, but I can’t do it.”

Scott stared at him, mouth agape for a few moments before trying to explain. “Murder? He’s not dead, Derek. He’s been in hospice for two years, spewing that black blood, but not dying.”

Stiles eyed Scott warily, a look of slight betrayal etched on his face, but he didn’t say a word.

“ I appreciate your ethics, Derek, really I do, but I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. You need to activate full control, the way the Life Debt requires, before…” His words died on his tongue, as if finishing the sentence required admitting some terrible truth.

Stiles finally found his voice. “Before what?”

“ You turn Ifrit.”

Stiles backed up so quickly that he bumped into the cart behind him. The metal rattled, and his elbow pushed his mostly empty cup hit the floor, the lid popping off sending tepid coffee everywhere. “No, no, no, no, no. Derek, you can’t let that happen to me. Do whatever he says.”

 

 

 

 

 

Derek felt his stomach drop at the sight of those large brown eyes, pleading and desperate.

“ Don’t let me become that.”

“ But-” Derek did not like the look of disapproval on everyone’s faces. Not at all. “Are there specific rules for how I activate control?”

“ First step is to use one of your wishes. I don’t think I need to remind you to be careful what you wish for.”

_ Very funny, Deaton.  _ Derek scratched his brow.  _ “ _ I don't know if I can. What if I wish for something simple, and it gets people hurt?”

“Derek! You don’t know the things I’ll do, the people I’ll  _ hurt _ or kill if you don't.” Stiles' eyes were the size of dinner plates, pleading with him. His hands trembled, and Derek could hear his heart racing in his chest.

“ The rules-”

Deaton showed him the translation. “Ifrit aren’t bound by rules. They do whatever they want, because they can.”

Stiles grabbed the front of his shirt, fisting his hands in the fabric. “Derek, please!”

His frantic voice made him sound so much younger than his eighteen years, and it sucked the breath from Derek’s lungs. Stiles, however, appeared to take his silence for a refusal, and before Derek could form words, he watched his boyfriend dissolve into smoke leaving only a pile of clothes and a pair of red Converse behind. A few moments after the smoke slipped out of the room, the rest of the pack heard the front door slam shut.

Derek looked at their worried (and slightly angry faces). “Stop looking at me like that. I'll fix it. Don't worry.” He gathered up Stiles' clothes and left the room. He had one foot out the front door when Deaton called after him.

"You’d better hope it’s not too late.”

He grumbled about the man’s perfect timing as he slid into the driver’s seat. With no intentions of rushing into a wish he knew would backfire on him, Derek drove home to think up the perfect wish, one in which he could live with any way the thing went wrong.

  
  


***

  
  


"Stiles?" Derek rapped softly on his closed bedroom door. The faint noise of the small television in the corner was all he could hear inside beside Stiles’ heartbeat

“ Go away,” came a soft, tear-laden reply from the other side of the door. “Fuck your morals, Derek. Just go away and let me burn up everything I care about, let me destroy it all while you sit there convinced you’ve done the right thing.”

Derek winced, “I’m sorry. Can you let me in please?” He could feel the line of Mountain Ash blocking his entrance to Stiles’ room. He waited for the sounds of shuffling feet towards the door but none came. However, the door swung open a few moments later with Stiles curled up in the corner, the hose to his hookah at his lips, his eyes glued to the screen.

Derek followed Stiles’ gaze to his desk, expecting to see some comic book movie, but found _ Jeopardy _ instead. Few people knew Stiles turned to the show as a comfort when he felt most distressed, as a way to feel close to his mom. Derek knew the two of them would watch it every day after school.

“ In 1912 this Polish-born author shared with readers 'The Secret Sharer', a short story in English,” the disembodied voice of Alex Trebek carried through the room.

Stiles blew out a puff of perfect, spinning smoke rings. “Who is Joseph Conrad?”

Derek took in the messy state of Stiles’ room. All around, swirls of orange smoke danced as though they were feeding off Stiles’ emotional state. He could see books and printouts scattered on his bed.

“ Is not feeling like a slave-owner more important to you than my life, than the lives of others?”

Derek couldn’t look away from Stiles’ red-rimmed eyes and tear stained face. “No, of course it isn't.”

“Then why won't you help me? Because once I cross that line, whatever line that is, there will be little of _ me _ left. Well, me as you know me anyway. All day, I’ve been working through the markings on my legs, and I can’t puzzle out a scenario in which someone who apparently loves me would want that for me.”

Derek knelt down in front of him and moved the hookah out of the way, prying the hose from Stiles’ hands so he could take them in his. “I do love you, more than- I just didn’t understand. I still don’t. This fear you have, I don’t understand it, and I wish I did, that you’d let me in.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. _ Shit, shit, shit. _ That had not been the innocuous wish he’d come up with at all.

Stiles screwed his eyes shut the moment the words ‘I wish’ left Derek’s lips. Lip quivering, he gave Derek a little bow of his head. “I’m sorry for this.”

Before Derek had a chance to register what Stiles could possible be sorry about, pain, heat and horrific images filled his head, knocking him on his ass. The room around him grew dark, or at least the vision did. Derek still had enough control of his mental faculties to know what he was seeing was not, in fact, real.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t terrifying; that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

When his eyes, even wolfvision, couldn’t see a thing due to the pitch black, Derek felt the twinges of panic creeping into his lungs. He wasn't used to being totally blind. Then, as if out of nowhere, plumes of orange smoke began to fill the room until it was so thick he could have choked on it.

Little by little, more light filtered in until he could see perfectly. In a room filled with mirrors, the only thing Derek could see reflected in them was not himself, but Stiles. Only he was not staring at any version of Stiles he knew. Gone was the pale and mole-dotted skin of of his boyfriend; gone were those endearing doe eyes he loved. The Stiles looking at him from the other side of the glass--from somewhere beyond maybe--looked like a demon, red-fleshed and charred. Flames danced around Stiles, taunting Derek, as if...they knew.

They knew who he was and why he was so important to  Stiles , and not because he loved him. No, because he held the other half of the Djinni contract, the part against which this new Stiles wanted to rebel. Derek was in the way, a nuisance, an obstacle.

He felt the heat in the room rise as Stiles’ voice, the same deep and dark timbre they’d all heard the night they rescued him from the hunters--or more accurately, the night he saved himself--filled the room. “Stop fighting, Stiles. We are the natural progression; we are what you are _ supposed _ to be.”

Stiles’ voice, his real voice, in its real pitch, echoed around Derek. “No, you’re not! I don’t want to be you!”

Derek could hear the tears in the voice.

“ Just go away.” The voice, sounding small and childlike, pleaded. “Just leave me alone, please.”

Once more the heat rose, too hot for Derek, and more smoke surged into the room. It broke him, stealing the air from his lungs. Too much like the fire that claimed most of his family, too much… it was all too much.

“ Let me out!” He searched for an exit in vain. “Please. I understand now, Stiles! I get it. I'll do whatever it takes to help you. Let me out!” As the room grew hotter still, and the flames increased, Derek started breaking the mirrors. Shards of glass embedded into his skin, and the cuts didn’t heal like he thought they would. If he could just get rid of every image of this fiery Stiles, maybe the fire would go out.

It had to.

It had to.

It had to.

  
  


*   *   *   *   *

  
  


“Derek.”

He groaned as someone with a voice, so familiar to him, shook him awake. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep, though he supposed, passed out was probably more accurate.

“ There you are.”

“ Where did I-” He stopped, recalling the waking nightmare (or had he been asleep the whole time?) his wish earned him.

“ I tried, Wilczek.”

“ Wilczek?”

Stiles took a deep breath. “'S a pet name, means wolf pup. Sorry it just slipped out. I won't cal- ”

Derek could see the tears in Stiles’ eyes, and he lay a comforting hand on his knee. “I like it.”

“ I swear. I tried granting it exactly as you asked. There’s a block in place. I can’t; it won’t let me. I…”

Derek groaned. His head pounded; his fists hurt like hell. He held up his hands, begging Stiles with imploring eyes to tend to his wounds.

“ I don’t, I don’t understand. Your hands? You want me to hold them?”

“ No, they’re hur-” Derek looked at his hands. He could see no wounds, and in that moment, he understood. When he’d found Stiles in the shower, where the guy had thrown himself to extinguish flames, he'd seen no evidence of any fire, but to Stiles it had been very real, and just because it all happened in his head didn't mean it didn't cause him pain. "Oh. Is that how you'll look if you turn?" Stiles nodded.

With great care, Stiles helped him sit up and pulled his head to his chest. "I'm sorry."

Derek rubbed his temples. "Don't be. I'm the one who should be sorry. If giving you orders is what it takes to prevent you from becoming that, I'll do it. I'll make them little tiny things. I don't want you to become that." He looked at the mess on Stiles' bed. "Did you figure it out?"

"Yeah." He stacked the books and papers into neat piles. "Come on up here, and I'll show you."

On shaky legs, Derek stood and did not say a word when he watched Stiles slip a piece of paper under his laptop. The guy clearly thought he'd been clandestine enough to escape Derek's attention.

However, the contents of that paper was a conversation for another day.

“ Are you okay?”

Why would Stiles ask him that? Derek wasn’t in danger of turning into an evil fire demon, but then, a dip of his head sent a wave of pain rolling from behind his eyes, through his head and down his spine. He tried to stop the groan from escaping his mouth, but failed. “Headache.”

Stiles patted his pillow. “Come lie down. I have something that will help.”

Before Derek could stop him from leaving, so he could remind him that medication would do little for him, Stiles disappeared out his bedroom door. He closed his eyes, hoping that keeping as much light out as possible would alleviate the pounding ache. It didn’t.

“ Here, let me-” Stiles placed a warm compress over Derek’s eyes. “I will just tell you what I managed to translate.”

“ You don’t need to take care of me.” Derek had to admit though, the heat actually seemed to quell the pain in his head, or maybe it was a combination of that and his head upon Stiles’ thigh. He couldn’t be sure.

“ Yes, I do. It’s my fault, and anyway, even if it wasn’t...you don’t like seeing me in pain. Well, that goes both ways.”

Derek turned his head so he could kiss Stiles' leg. "Well, that wasn't so bad. I've been through worse."

“ Even still,” he carded his fingers through Derek's hair, "Thank you. I know you didn't want to do-"

"Stop, Stiles."

Unlike he had with every other command Derek had given (even though they had been minor), Stiles sighed in relief, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. He took a deep, relaxing breath and leaned back against his headboard.

Derek looked up at him. "Do you feel any different?"

"Yeah, I think. I feel more centered."

“ Well, that's good then. I don't want you to go dark side.”

He grinned. “Aww, Derek, you made a  _ Star Wars _ reference. You know me so well.” He pulled out his notebook. “So, right next to the dagger is…”

Somewhere in between Stiles’ explanations and coming up with a plan for the two of them, Derek, too distracted by his headache and Stiles’ hands massaging his scalp, drifted off to sleep.

  
  


 


	22. The Wish That Should Never Have Been Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> Scene 1: “Arsonist's Lullaby”- Hozier  
> Scene 2: “Sleepwalking”- Bring Me the Horizon  
> Scene 3: “The Gift”- Seether
> 
> Translation for Polish used in chapter:  
> Gdzie jesteś, skarbeńku?- Where are you, my precious little baby?  
> Zabłądziłeś, mała jelonek?- Are you lost little fawn?  
> Kochanie- Term of endearment for sweetie, baby, etc

Fresh off a fourteen hour shift, John tossed his keys on the counter just inside the kitchen, shutting the door from the garage into the house behind him. He sought out dinner from the fridge where his son would often have a plate made up for him when he came home. Only this time, he found none. So, he pulled out the fixings for a turkey sandwich and made himself dinner.

He knew Stiles was home; the Jeep was in the driveway, but he couldn’t hear him. _ Must be in his room doing homework. _ However, when he crossed into the dining room, he found him sitting at the dining room in front of a large block of something that resembled plaster. Well, it had been a block at some point, but John could see that his son had carved away large portions of it, if the white dust covering the newspaper lining the table was any indication. “What are you doing, Son?”

“ Hmm?” Stiles asked, as though he hadn’t noticed his father’s entrance.

He took in the dark circles under Stiles’ eyes, far darker than they’d ever been during that whole Nogitsune mess. “What are you carving?”

Stiles spun the thing around to show his dad the beginnings of what would be a wolf statue.

“ That looks nice. I didn’t know you did art. Is this a new-”

“ It’s because of what I am. My hands just don’t want to stay still. Haven’t you noticed any of the little wood-carvings around the house? I’ve left them everywhere.”

John had to admit he’d been less than observant with his son for years, an obvious shortcoming, and one that hurt him more to admit than he thought it would. “I’m sorry; I haven’t.”

“ Making it for Derek.”

“ Oh? His birthday coming up?”

Stiles snorted. “I’d thought after how many times you’ve looked at his record, you’d have that man’s birthday memorized. He’s a Christmas baby, Dad. There’s no occasion, just thought he’d like it.”

"So... You two?" He took a bite of his sandwich. "S'that serious?"

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at him. "I think you already know the answer to that."

"I probably do, but I'm asking _ you _ ."

"If you're trying to ask how I feel about him-"

"That's exactly what I'm asking. You and I, we never got to talk about that... You being gay."

Stiles chipped bits of stone away from the wolf's ears. "Not gay. I'm bi, but what does that matter?"

"It doesn't. I'm just sorry I didn't believe you before."

Stiles didn't look up from his work. "If it helps, I wasn't worth believing for much back then. Can't blame you for not trusting me."

John felt something of a pang of regret hit him in the chest. "Stiles-"

"It's okay. But since you asked, yes, I think it’s serious. Being mutually in love with each other usually means that, though we haven’t discussed i t."

“ But he stays over or you stay there a lot.” He watched his son pale. “You thought I didn’t know about that.”

“ Um…”

“ Relax. I can’t stop you from staying over there, and I must say I appreciate that he doesn’t stay over when I’m home.”

  
  


  
  


  
  


Stiles gave him a nervous chuckle. “I just… feel better when he’s here. Like he wouldn’t let me shift in my sleep or anything.” He swallowed hard as he stared at the block of stone. He was exhausted, not just tired, but deep down in his bones weary, the kind of fatigue that would probably never go away.

“ When is the last time you slept?”

Stiles shrugged. "Oregon.”

“ Oregon? As in you getting just not enough sleep at night? Is that what you-”

“ No, I mean, I don’t even try to sleep. Too afraid to.”

John’s jaw hit the ground.  “Stiles,  h ow are you still functioning? That was almost a month ago.”

Stiles carved a long, scrolling line down the tail. “I don’t really need sleep anymore, maybe only a couple hours a night. I just do it to stave off boredom, or to check out for eight hours. To be honest, it requires sleeping pills anyway.”

"So, Scott called me."

Stiles decided not to call his father out on the abrupt change of subject. "Of course he did."

"I have duty to protect the town."

"You could have asked me, you know. Or talked to me. I would have told you. Hell, I'd rather you'd heard it from me. I know more about what's going on with me than Scott does. What did the two of you talk about? Best course of action if you have to put me down? You know Scott would never go for that. He'd let fifty innocent people die before he decided I was too dangerous." Stiles felt his heart breaking at the words. “He’s done it before.”

John stared at him like he’d grown an extra head, a fact of which, Stiles did not fail to notice. He shuddered and broached the subject with his dad. “Dad, does what I am scare you?”

"No, of course not." John winced.

Well  _ that _ was the least believable lie he'd ever heard.

“ Why are you lying?”

“ Because I don’t want it to scare me. I don’t want to be scared of my son, of what he can do, could beco-.”

"I'm not bad. ”

“ I didn’t say you were.”

“ I mean, I’m not going to turn bad either.”

“ Sometimes we don’t get to make that choice.”

“No, Dad. You are who _ you _ choose to be.”

“ Spiderman logic doesn’t work in the real world, Son.”

Stiles smirked. “That’s not Spiderman. That’s from  _ The Iron Giant _ . I am not going to let this ‘gift’ turn me into a demon. I won’t let that happen.” _ Even if it kills me. " _ Look, I know you never warmed up to this supernatural crap. I mean you accept it exists, but you don't embrace it. You always just seemed happy I wasn’t one of them, and I... I was happy being just human, even if I was jealous of all the things my friends could do. I didn't ask for this, Dad. Hell, I didn’t even know it was coming.

"And I know I wasn’t the easiest kid to raise. I know that. I don't know if you remember the night you found Laura Hale's body, the night Scott was bitten, but I do. "This delinquent belongs to me." You said that, but aside from the stolen police van, which I took with the town's best interest in mind, I didn't do any of that on purpose. I'm just too curious for my own good. I'm sorry, though."

"For?"

_ Everything. _ Tears began to well up in his eyes. "For being me, I guess. I'm sorry that I'm not the perfectly, well behaved son every parent wants. I'm sorry I'm not the lacrosse captain with the cheerleader girlfriend. I'm sorry that because of me, this town has a supernatural target in its back. I'm sorry I'm not someone worth trusting. I'm sorry what I am scares you and so many others. I ’m sorry that the supernatural finally became personal for you, and instead of getting a True Alpha, you got me. I’m sorry I’m not Scott. " He was bawling at this point, but unable to stop himself. Convinced someone would decide he was too dangerous and take him down, he had to get all this out in the open, to make sure his Dad understood and knew. "I'm sorry I look so much like Mom that you can hardly look at me without seeing her and haven't been able to really see me for ten years. But most of all, I'm sorry she made that wish to have me." With his body quaking from great heaving sobs, he shifted, and in less than ten seconds, his smoky form slipped through the screen on the back door, speeding away from the house for the deepest parts of the preserve. He'd hidden clothes there where he could be alone and not hurt anyone.

Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could make it rain, and no one would find him in time.

  
  


***

  
  


Floating above one of the lesser known ponds in the preserve, Stiles let his smoke stretch far and thin across the water. It was easier to remain undetected when he was a green djinni, but now that his smoke had turned orange, it stuck out. Green looked like fog in the moonlight; orange? Well, orange looked like fire, and fire didn’t just levitate over bodies of water, tempting fate.

Existing as smoke lent a certain air of weightlessness to his being, one Stiles savored. Not quite like falling, but just floating there, where he could remain in that liminal space between his body and air.

He’d lost track of just how long he’d been out here, deep in the preserve, but it had to be several hours, and he knew, given the last thing he’d said to his father before rushing out of the house, the man had to be worried sick about him by now.

To shift back from smoke to his corporeal form required more concentration than the other way around. The thing about smoke was this: It wasn’t as though he was completely dissolved. How would he be sentient if that were the case? If someone focused long enough on the amorphous shape this form took on they would see a larger concentration of smoke in the middle, one surrounded by wisps stretching out like tentacles. That tighter mass was, in essence, Stiles.

The shift started in the smoke farthest away from his center, and he called it back. The tendrils receded slowly like water wicking its way up a piece of fabric. One by one, he recalled each part of him, saving the closest smoky bits for last until all that remained was one tightly coiled plume of smoke.

Today took extra concentration--he was over water after all--and he let himself drift towards the tree with the hole in the base of the trunk where he’d stored a pair of sweatpants and a long sleeve t-shirt. The part of him that had the foresight to hide clothes one day, did not in fact plan ahead far enough to leave shoes. Maybe on a better day Stiles would be bothered by this.

That day was not this day.

While he tightened the drawstring on the sweatpants, a voice filtered through the trees catching his attention. Like a whisper on the wind, that sweet and oh so familiar voice hit him in the chest like a mellifluous bullet.

"Maciek. ”

He had to be hearing things. That was the only explanation. So he shook his head, trying to clear the voice from his mind, but its calling persisted.

“ Maciek.”

He clamped his hands down over his ears. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. The more he tried to ignore it, the louder the voice called out for him.

“ Maciek. Gdzie jesteś, skarbeńku?”

No. No. This was a cruel trick his mind was playing on him. Hands still covering his ears, he buried his face in his knees.

“ Zabłądziłeś, jelonku?”

He felt a soft touch on his arm, feather light like a butterfly’s wings, and he lifted his head to see an ethereal image of his mother kneeling in front of him. Parched like Death Valley, his throat dried out on him. “Mamusia?” He croaked out, throat thick with emotion.

“ Maciek, why are you out here hiding?”

He blinked several times, reaching out his hand to test a theory. When his fingers did not, in fact, pass through her spectral form, his heart stopped. The bare skin of her arm was warm to the touch and solid. He swallowed hard. “How?”

“ The how is not important. My sweet boy, you look so haunted, like you haven’t slept in years.”

He dashed the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. “It feels like I haven’t.” As her hand cupped his cheek, he tried not to flinch. This had to be a dream. He’d finally become so exhausted that he’d passed out somewhere in the woods.

“ How you’ve grown, so handsome.”

He didn’t believe her.

“ But why are your eyes so sad, so old?”

“ It’s not been easy with you gone. Things have happened, magical things, things you wouldn’t believe.” Even if this was all in his head, there was so much he wanted to say to her.

He shifted, and the hem of his shirt rode up, exposing his stomach. She stared down at the orange ink on his skin. Stiles glanced down at his abdomen, in the direction of her gaze and then looked back up at her. For a brief moment, they stared at each other.

“ Why would you cover your beautiful skin with these markings?”

“ I…” She’d been a free spirit. Stiles had trouble imagining her disapproving of tattoos.

Her fingers hovered above the swirling lines. “I once met a man with brandings such as these.”

“ I know you did. I found your journal.”

She recoiled as she connected the dots. “So that’s how the wish went wrong. My sweet boy-” She choked back a sob. “What did it do to you?”

He couldn’t speak; the words died in his throat. He could no longer stare at the look, a mix of horror and pity, on her face and scrambled away from her. In his chest, he felt his heart thundering against his sternum, and paying no mind to where he was going, tore through the woods.

No matter how hard he tried, he could not shift, not that he thought in any form would he be able to outrun her. Yards behind him, she kept calling for him, never raising her voice above the sweet dulcet tone.

Once he managed to put quite a bit of distance between them, he ducked behind a large tree to catch his breath. However, it only took moments for the image of his mother to meet him face to face. No longer warm, her icy fingers wrapped around his wrists.

“ Are you one of them, one of the djinn?”

Those hollow eyes bored into his skull, and Stiles couldn't look at her. He screwed his eyes shut and turned away. Still, he could feel the chill emanating from her form mere inches from his face. “You could bring me back, you know.”

With vehemence, he shook his head. “No, no I can’t. It’s against the rules, the natural order.”

Frigid lips kissed his cheek. “Oh but you could, if only you elevated yourself to a higher form, the one someone like you should have. After all you’ve been through, it’s your right.”

"If I did that, I'd hurt people, possibly kill them.”

“ But you could bring me back. After all, you've wished for that so many times. Why not let yourself have what you really want.”

He looked at her, his eyes wide in a mix of shock and fear. “You want me to kill innocent people, Mamusia?”

"Who said anything about innocent?”

“ But, I'd be a demon.”

“ No, no, Kochanie. If you hurt the ones who deserve it, you'd be an avenging angel.”

“ I...I can't.”

“ You have to.”

He screwed his eyes shut. _ No, no, no _ . _ This isn’t real. Wake up, Stiles. _ The grip on his wrists tightened, drawing a whimper of pain from his throat. _ Wake up! _ He opened his eyes and damn near screamed.

Hi mother’s face, the one he’d known as a child, the one that stared back at him from the pictures in his house, was gone, replaced by a gaunt, near skeletal version of her.

“ Why won’t you bring me back? We could be a happy family again. Isn’t that what you’ve wanted for years?”

Using as much force as his trembling limbs could muster, he shoved at her ghastly form and ducked out from under her arm. As he tore his arms from her grasp, pain radiated from his wrists and up his arms. He could not run away fast enough.

His feet pounded the cool, damp soil of the forest floor as he fled. So intent on getting away from the corrupted shade of his mother, he didn’t even move low-hanging branches out of his way as he ran. The switches stung as they snapped against his skin, breaking it open in more than one place. He didn’t care.

“ Bring me back!” Her singsong voice, one of tender care, now sounded like a mournful wail.

“ This isn’t real!”

His foot caught a rock, sending him crashing to the ground. Before he could push himself up to keep running, his body was flipped over, and those frozen hands wrapped around his neck. _ This isn’t real. You know it’s not. Your mother would never do this. _ Despite his mind trying to convince him that everything happening in that moment was merely a hallucination, he could hardly breathe as those hands squeezed, choking him and freezing him from the inside out.

Fumbling around in the dirt, his fingers found a rock, and he smashed it as hard as he could against the vision’s skull. It gave him just enough space to escape. He’d never run so fast in his life.

Stupidly, he chanced a glance behind him, and what he saw sucked the air from his lungs and chilled him to the bone. No longer did just a skeleton chase him, but several--hell it might as well have been a small army--of his fiery reflection followed in close pursuit.

“ The only way to stop this is to embrace your true form!” They screamed at him, voices low and haunting the way his was in the mirror. “We will make her suffer and burn if you don’t!”

“ Leave me alone!” Finally, his feet, bloodied and sore, hit a clearing. Though disoriented and vision blurry with tears, he knew this place.

Rows upon rows of lonely stones welcomed him, offering to give shelter.

His lungs burned; his body was so far past exhausted, he was amazed he could still stand. Still, he kept running, the fiery demons hot on his heels, literally. When he found the stone familiar to him, he collapsed, completely spent in front of it.

  
  


*   *   *   *   *

  
  


John climbed out of the passenger side of Derek’s car. “This is the only other place I think he could be.” Scott and Derek soon joined him outside.

The two wolves’ ears immediately perked up. “Scott, do you hear that?”

“ Yeah, it sounds like-”

Derek didn’t wait for an answer, and instead ran in the direction of the screaming. “Stiles!” The other two followed in quick pursuit.

They found him, kneeling in front of his mother’s headstone, his body draped over it, hands punching at the marble while he screamed.

“This is _ your _ fault!”

When his fist made contact with marble, Derek heard the subtle crack of Stiles’ knuckles breaking against the stone, but he didn’t stop.

“ Mamusia, you did this to me!” Another punch. “I’m turning into a monster, and it’s all your fault! Why did you wish for me?” He sobbed. “How could you do that to me? I hate you!”

After another blow, Derek couldn’t watch anymore and rushed forward to pull Stiles into his lap. He tightened his arms around him. “Shh. You’re okay. It’s okay.”

With bloody knuckles, Stiles clung to Derek like a life raft. “It’s her fault I’m like this. If she’d never made that wish-” His broken sobs filled the air.

Derek rubbed his back. “Then you wouldn’t be here.”

“ But everything wouldn’t hurt either. Scott would never have been bitten, Jackson would never have become the kanima. Those deputies, the people at the hospital, Erica, Boyd, Allison- They’d all still be alive if she’d never wished for me.”

_ But I wouldn’t be. _ Derek closed his eyes and rested his chin on Stiles’ head. He’d never admitted aloud before that after he found Laura’s body, he had planned to put everything he had into finding her killer and then swallow a lethal dose of Wolfsbane. Stiles dragging Scott into the woods, resulting in Peter biting Scott had saved his life.

He’d never told anyone, and swore he never would.

 

 

 

 

John stood off to the side, watching his son, body trembling, cling to Derek while his chest heaved in broken sobs. He'd never heard Stiles sound like that before, and never did he think he would he would hear Stiles say anything bad about his mother. The two of them had shared a closeness he could only dream of having with Stiles, and how upsetting that 'Mama's boy' carried such a negative connotation. It was tragic really. He longed for the right words to say but felt them all stick in his throat.

“ Come on. Let's get out of here,” Derek said trying to help him to his feet.

“ Stop!” Stiles hissed in pain and crumpled to the ground. “I just...” Wounded, he was helpless. “Who wants to volunteer? And do not carry me bridal style!”

Derek smiled, moving the hair off Stiles' forehead and kissed the top of his head. Then, he crouched down so Stiles could climb onto his back. “You good?” He asked, holding onto Stiles' thighs.

“ Yeah.”

The ride back to the Stilinski house was almost silent, Stiles having slumped against Derek's shoulder in the backseat.

 

* * * * *

 

In the harsh light of the dining room, Melissa tended to the soles of Stiles' feet, pulling out the pieces of debris with a pair of tweezers. She'd already bandaged the skin broken from the branches. 

 

Stiles could tell that neither her, nor anyone else seemed to be able to bring up the handprint shaped bruises around his neck or wrists. Though, if he was honest, he knew the look on his father's face to be one which meant he was mulling the right words over in his mind.

Stiles jerked his foot away from her as she tugged a little hard on a large splinter.

“ Sorry, Sweetie.”

“ Stiles, what happened tonight?” His father broached the subject carefully.

Looking down at his hands, bloody knuckles waiting for treatment, he sighed. “Dad, I really don't-”

“ Look, I know you haven't really wanted to talk about this with me, you being supernatural, but all I know is, tonight I heard you apologize to me for existing only to find you two hours later screaming at your mother's headstone. You asked me if what you were scared me, and you didn't let me finish. Yeah, your powers are intimidating, but most of all, I am terrified of losing you. To your own mind, to the darkness...to hunters.” He rubbed his temples. “You may have the pack and Derek, but, Kiddo, you are all I have. I don't want to have to bury you too.”

Stiles made grabby hands at his father and hugged him tightly, knowing all the while that should he turn Ifrit his father might have no choice but to lose him as well.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 


	23. Write Your Offenses In Ebony Ichor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> Scene 1&2: “Make It Rain”- Ed Sheeran  
> Scene 3: “By and Down”- A Perfect Circle  
> Scene 4: “Mayhem”- Halestorm

A deafening clap of thunder shook the Stilinski house. Outside, what began as merely a light drizzle had turned to steady sheets of rain, soaking the ground and seeping its way into the soil. By morning, the grass outside would be a little greener, the spring flowers a bit brighter in color.

Sitting propped against his headboard, Stiles stared at himself in the mirror on the wall at the end of his bed. His eyes, glazed over and vacant, didn’t really focus on anything other than his ghastly reflection. Maybe seeing it everyday had caused it to lose its effect on him. Or more probable?

Stiles was numb.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept, and he’d finally come to the conclusion that, yes, there was a point at which even the djinn needed sleep, and he was well past it. His head felt heavy, like it weighed eight tons instead of eight pounds, and it lolled forward before Stiles jerked it back upright.

“I'm awake; I'm awake.”

His resolve did not last long before he slumped over and onto his pillow, the one closest to the wall that smelled like Derek. Within minutes, he was out like a light. This time, no sleeping pills were required. He was simply too exhausted to stay awake any longer.

The two hour mark came and went, and by two a.m., he began to stir. Only, instead of rousing, becoming alert with each passing moment the way he normally did when he awoke, Stiles’ eyelids slipped open revealing glowing amber irises. Underneath his pajamas, his tattoos glowed faintly. Fluid and mechanical movements led him to the door and down the stairs.

The puddles of rain on the pavement pooled up over his bare feet as he walked, not without a purpose and not without a direction. His body, on autopilot, had a singular focus.

He didn’t need to know where he was going. A pull in his gut told him that. So his feet continued on their own accord, moving him closer to his target. The rain, on any other night, would be sapping the strength from his bones, stealing the energy from his blood. Not tonight.

Tonight, were he in a fully sentient state of mind, he’d notice just how warm he felt, hotter than usual, far past feverish, and it would work to his advantage. The raindrops sizzled and evaporated into steam almost as quickly as they hit his skin. He’d need that in order to make it to his destination in one piece.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he could still hear her calling to him.

 

“ _Let yourself have what you really want…”_

“ _...bring me back…”_

“ _...hurt the ones who deserve it.”_

 

And he would, he definitely would.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


With a smirk, Stiles stood outside Beacon Manor Residential Care. Somewhere inside that building lie a man, the catalyst and cause of so much pain. Every nerve in Stiles' body itched to get inside.

The long walk over had served to do two things. One, Stiles’ body was alert as ever, maybe even more so, and two, his mind most certainly, was elsewhere. If he were, entirely awake, Stiles would recognize the red filter through which he saw everything, and in moments, his mind would go blank.

Ambling over in his sleep cut out the cerebral middle man, as it were.

He camped under a bus shelter and pulled out a cigarette from the case still inside his pajama pants pocket where he’d left it when he’d come in from enjoying a smoke before bed. Savoring the smoke as it settled in his chest, he let it swirl around in his lungs, growing warmer and warmer by the second. The hotter it got, the more emboldened he became.

He’d need that heat and menacing confidence to pull this off. The devil-may-care attitude that came with this current state of being would look good on Stiles were he aware of it, in charge of it. But he wasn’t.

Sitting there on that bench, legs stretched out in front of him, he finished his cigarette only to pull out another. Then another. After all, he had time.

Finally, when his lungs had their fill of smoke, when the heat of his skin had spread inwards, he walked towards the building complex. In the seclusion of a dark alley separating one wing from another, Stiles let his body slip away into one small wisp of smoke.

The awning above his head had lent safety when he stashed his clothes under the steps, and a door not quite latched shut gave him an entrance.

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Stiles floated down hallways seeking the room that had pulled him here. Floor by floor, he floated, reading names beside doors until, in a smoky haze, he settled outside room A151. Through the small window, he could see the room was dark, the resident within asleep.

He entered the room through the heating vent above the transom window.

Once inside, he let his form expand until, once more, he stood with human feet. Not willing to stand there entirely naked, he flicked his hand towards the ground, just as he had in Deaton’s office. With smoke whirling around his waist. He flexed his fingers several times until he had smoke billowing from them, and he sent the haze around the room to cover the walls, concealing the noise that would soon fill this room from outside ears. His tattoos, now glowing brightly, gave enough light in the room for him to see perfectly.

It was hard to believe the frail man lying the bed in the middle of the room was responsible for so much pain, but Stiles knew better. He’d been on the receiving end of more than a few blows and a kick to the ribs from that man. He sat down in the chair next to him.

“Rise and shine, Asshole.” Had Stiles not soundproofed the room, the bass of his voice would have rattled the windows.

Startled, Gerard Argent clutched at his blankets and sat up. “What in the-”

“Surprise. I must say you look far worse than the last time I saw you, using Derek as a lycanthropic Pez dispenser. Tell me, Gerard, how’s The Bite working out for you?” He leaned back and propped his feet up on the bed, hands crossed behind his head.

Gerard stared at him, confused, like he almost recognized him. “Who-”

Stiles leaned in close and loomed over him. “Is this better for you? I mean I know I look different from the kid you kicked the crap out of in that basement, but I think the resemblance is still there.” He straightened and inspected himself in the mirror.

He could not hide the cocky grin that formed on his lips. “I gotta say, I really love what this change has done to my hair.. Don’t you think?” He ran a hand through his fiery locks, savoring the way the flames felt against his skin. When he pulled his hand back, he wiggled his fingers so the fire danced across his palm. “The physical changes have been pretty sweet too, let me tell you. I was pretty sure I was going to top out sub six foot until  _this_ ,” he gestured to his appearance, “happened. Six one is a lot more fun than that, but  _these_ ,” He flexed his shoulders and unfurled his wings, ones that stretched from wall to wall, “are the best. Aren’t they beautiful? I could knock you aside with one swipe if I wanted, and believe me, Gerard, I do want that.”

“Drago-”

“Enough chit-chat, Dickwad.”

“I see you are still as disrespectful of your elders as you were two years ago. Tell me, has your father grown tired of-”

“Here’s what’s gonna happen. I’m going to give you two choices-”

“If I choose the first option I live; if I choose the second, I die?”

Stile cackled. “Fuck no. Both scenarios end with you dead. One is just significantly quicker, and a hell of a lot less fun.” He waved his hand and made the outline of two doors with his smoke. “Let’s see what’s behind door number one, shall we?” He snapped his fingers. In his best game show host voice, he described the choice. “If you choose door number One, you get this fabulous prize: Confess your crimes, write them down, and I’ll make it quick. Seconds even; you might not feel a thing at all. Door number Two: Do nothing, and I will burn you...slowly. You’ll die in agony, but you’ll remain a saint in the eyes of the law. Your choice.”

Gerard coughed, black blood pooling on hips lips, spilling over down his chin.

Stiles burst out laughing. “I’m sorry; it’s just hard to take you seriously when you look like you’ve been chomping down on a cephalopodan ink sac or fifty.”

Gerard sneered. “Option One.”

Stiles yanked the man out of bed and grabbed his throat. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Whatever, just make it quick.”

Stiles’ evil laughter filled the room, sending vibrations through the floor. “I have no intentions of making this quick, you sick bastard.”

“But you said-”

Stiles faced him. “I lied.” Then, he punched the mirror, shattering it, and plunged a shard into Gerard's arm. He grabbed an empty bowl off the uncollected dinner tray. “Mmm, smells like pudding.” He let the ichor flow into the empty container before thrusting it in Gerard’s direction. He shoved him towards the wall. “Write!”

Gerard stared at him, like the man had no idea what he’d done.

“Need help? Let’s start with at least three counts of felony child abuse and false imprisonment. I’m pretty sure electrocuting two sixteen year olds in your basement counts as child abuse. Then, let’s move onto aggravated assault, accessory to assault and imprisonment, desecrating human remains, improper disposal of a body, accessory to arson and statutory rape, and let’s not forget at least ten counts of premeditated murder. And those are just the ones I know about. Also, might I add that your actions in blinding Deucalion led to countless other murders.” Stiles sent a wave of smoke in Gerard's face, causing the man to cough up more blood. “Thought you might need more 'ink' than is in that bowl.” He lay down in the middle of the floor and tossed a ball of fire into the air repeatedly, catching it on the way down. “I don’t hear any confessing!”

As Gerard began to scrawl away at the wall, Stiles pretended to conduct music to the noise. “That is seriously, the most soothing sound ever.” He glanced over to see Gerard hesitating. Jumping to his feet, he grabbed hold of the man’s neck once more. “Gerard, Gerard, Gerard- you know the more times I say it, the more it sounds like coward. Do you need incentive?” Stiles let his hand turn to smoke and wrap around his neck like a noose. Then, he watched with glee as the smoke began to heat up, turning the skin beneath it pink. When Gerard hissed, he let him go. “Don’t worry, I got all night here.”

It took almost an hour of constant goading to get the man to finish his writing, and in that hour, Stiles escalated his torture, turning it inward, where instead of leaving marks on the body, it wreaked havoc on the inside. As Gerard let the empty bowl fall to the floor, Stiles laughed as the man held his stomach.

“That would be the feeling of your gastric juices boiling. Doesn’t feel too good does it? The other ache is the feeling of your organs cooking. I thought it was a nice touch.”

Gerard looked at him, appalled. “And you say _I’m_ bad. What would your saintly true alpha say about what you're doing?”

Stiles wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “That’s the beauty of it. Scott’s not here.”

“And what you’re doing is what… some warped sense of vengeance?”

“Ha!” He flexed his fingers of his left hand, stretching them towards the ceiling. Then he waited for smoke to start billowing from his fingertips. “Neat trick?” He lowered his brows and smirked. “Watch this.” He inhaled all the smoke off his fingers and let it heat rapidly in his lungs in a way he never did. He then grabbed Gerard’s head, and just like Scott had done to Derek two years before, forced the man’s mouth open. “This isn’t vengeance. This is judgment.” Stiles emptied his lungs into Gerard’s s mouth, sending superheated smoke down the man’s throat.

Letting Gerard collapse in a crumpled heap onto the floor, gasping for air and writhing in pain, Stiles grabbed the Drano from the bathroom closet and poured enough down Gerard’s throat to cover his tracks. Then, for good measure, he kicked the bottle over as he shifted back into smoke.

To the unsuspecting eye, the bastard had finally had enough and drank drain cleaner to kill himself. Though, to be fair, Stiles didn’t care if anyone believed it or not.

  
  


  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Stiles craned his neck to the sky and blew a puff of smoke into the night air, watching it curl it’s way towards the stars. A smirk played at the corner of his lips as they remained locked tight. Behind his teeth, he felt the burning sensation of fire contained in his throat. Were he to open his mouth and have someone peer inside, he imagined it would be like staring into the fiery chasms of Mount Doom, or at the very least, the mouth of Hell itself.

“Abandon all hope,” he said in his mind, chuckling a little at his joke, as he stowed his wings, neatly folded against his back, and spread out into smoke. His body wafted towards Beacon County Correctional Facility with such nonchalance, it might seem as though he were there to pay a friendly visit to an incarcerated relative, instead of the real purpose for his ‘visit.’

Since he’d left Gerard’s pathetic corpse in an undignified heap on the floor, he felt himself growing larger, a force that his corporeal form could not contain. He longed to shed all pretense and walk around like that, eight feet tall with impressive red wings and glowing eyes to match. He remembered the pictures from his research, the horrid and mangled shape this form was supposed to take, and he laughed, throaty and full bodied.

He’d spared a glance at his reflection on his way out of room A151. How wrong they’d been, those depictions.

He wasn’t monstrous like this. No, he was glorious and beautiful all at once, and found it hard to stomach the fact he’d need to return to form for a while longer, just until he figured out how to completely break that stupid Life Debt.

Just a little more power, he thought to himself. That’s all he needed, and if rendering judgment to Gerard Argent had set him this free, then delivering the same to the murders and rapists in the maximum security cell block would be one hell of a level up.

He couldn’t wait.


	24. Don’t Let Me Go Dark Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: There is suicidal ideation on Stiles' part this chapter in response to what happened last chapter (Scene 1)
> 
> Track Listing:  
> Scene 1&2: “Falls Apart (Acoustic)”- HURT  
> Scene 3: “Dear Agony”- Breaking Benjamin
> 
> Translation for Polish used in chapter:  
> “Wróć do mnie, moja miłość. Nie odchodź, proszę”- Come back to me, my love. Don’t go away, please.”

Stiles extinguished his coals and rose from the back porch. He left his hookah outside in the chilly morning air to cool down and went back inside. When he awoke that morning, he felt surprisingly rested, even though he did not remember falling asleep. The dark circles under his eyes had faded, and his skin looked brighter. Whatever the reason, it was a small mercy, he supposed.

From atop the fridge, he pulled down the box of Frosted Flakes, pouring a generous portion into his favorite cereal bowl. Mug of coffee and breakfast in hand, he sat down on the couch, turning on the TV to catch up on the baseball scores from last night before school. However, as the screen came to life, he noticed the last channel watched was a local station. So instead of  _Sportscenter_ , he was met with the morning news, and his bowl crashed to the carpet, cereal cascading everywhere.

 

“ _Nurses at Beacon Manor Residential Care were met with a grizzly sight this morning, when they discovered the body of a seventy-five year old patient dead in his room. Initial reports have classified this as a suicide, but it is the manner in which the man took his own life, which left the nurses in shock._

“ _The patient, whose name is not being released at this time out of respect for his family, apparently confessed to dozens of crimes including and not limited to, felony child abuse and murder before taking his own life. The most noteworthy of his crimes was a confession to being an accessory to a fatal arson case from eight years ago which killed eight Beacon Hills residents._

“ _Authorities are still investigating._

“ _Next, we move onto a story which first broke about an hour ago. Officers at Beacon County Correctional Facility were stunned early this morning to find the bodies of ten inmates dead in their cells. Seven of the men were housed in the maximum security wing of the facility and had been convicted of crimes ranging from rape to multiple counts of murder. The other three were in general lock-up awaiting trial for kidnapping, torture and attempted murder._

“ _At first glance, the inmates appear to have participated in some sort of suicide pact, though prison officials are baffled as to why, as none of the inmates had declared innocence. Six of the deceased had even pled guilty to their crimes. As for the how, it appears to be due to carbon monoxide poisoning resulting from the tampering of central heating vents._

“ _We will continue to keep you updated as details emerge.”_

  
  


Stiles couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Without knowing the name of the man at the nursing home, he knew in his gut that was Gerard Argent, and with the inmates, convicted of violent crimes- Stiles stared down at his hands, looking for any sign of his culpability. When he found none, he dashed upstairs to the bathroom and stared in horror.

His tattoos, orange when he went to bed, now glared at him in an angry fiery red. On his chest, he could see dried black smudges, not soot or ashes, but… He’d seen that before. Derek had once pressed a bone saw into his hand demanding Stiles cut off his arm, and dried around his mouth, were black stains just like these.

Haunting cries of “Mountain ash!” and memories of coughing up black blood came to the forefront of his mind. He’d killed someone, and not in self-defense like before. While he was sleeping, his body had, on its own accord sought out Gerard Argent and killed him, and Stiles suspected, the inmates too.

 

“ _Hurt the ones who deserve it.”_

  
And he had. He knew the words the vision, hallucination, of his mother had spoken to him had been false. Nothing would bring her back, and yet his subconscious decided to do it anyway. Now…

As he stared at himself, he watched his eyes turn from brown to a steady glowing red. The irises held no swirling patterns of smoke the way they had when they flashed green or orange. Just a constant burn of crimson.

The skin of his back erupted in an intense itching, the likes of which he’d never known. He shucked his shirt, and he turned around, hoping to catch a peek at what was causing it. The skin between his shoulder blades rippled like it was stretched too thin over what lie beneath. As he watched, the skin began to tear and tips of what appeared to be wings peaked through.

“No, no, no, no!” Stiles began to shake. Everything Deaton had warned him about, everything Stiles feared, was coming true. Derek had made his wish too late to stop anything. Visions of careless death and destruction, rampant violence violence filled his head. He didn’t want this, would do anything to stop it.

Without even sparing a second to consider any other options, he ran to his room and pulled the box from under his bed, the one he’d marked with a triskelion to ensure Derek knew this box was the one he’d meant. Stiles pulled the dagger free from it. Yet, no matter how hard he tried, he could not get his arms to bring it to his chest. It was as though his chest and hands were magnetic and of repellent poles. He desperately wanted to stop himself before he could hurt anyone else, especially anyone he cared about, but he was at war with himself, and he was losing.

He grabbed his phone while he still had some semblance of control and fired off a text to Derek telling him to meet him at his place.

Stiles felt in control; he could do this. It was all going to work out, and it was all going okay, until... it wasn’t.

He felt the darkness threatening to break through, and so, he dropped the knife back into the box, closing the lid over the top of it, and with the first writing implement he could find, scrawled hastily across the top. His vision began to stutter, like he was watching the world quake around him, though he knew nothing was moving. When red began to tinge the edges of his vision, he turned to bolt out of the house.

On his way out the door, he bumped into his desk, knocking the keyboard onto the floor. He fumbled for the two pieces of paper underneath and shoving them into his pocket...or at least he  _thought_ he grabbed both of pieces

  
  


  
  


 * * *

  
  


Derek climbed the steps to Stiles’ bedroom, confused by the fact his boyfriend was clearly not inside. The room was too silent for that; no heartbeat echoed in his ears. The vague text message said nothing other than, _“I need you; it’s important. Come over.”_

That was it. Derek’s follow-up message was not returned, and now here he was, heart in his throat wondering what the hell was going on. Initially, he thought Stiles had sleepwalked again and needed reassurance he was awake, but then he heard the news report on the radio on the way over. He knew without a doubt, the man described was Gerard and that Stiles had killed him. Who else would have done that? Though what really cemented things for him was the report from the prison. Then the question changed from who would do it, to who could. Breaking into a prison was nearly impossible, but as smoke, Derek knew Stiles would have little trouble.

He pushed open the door with shaking hands, afraid of what he’d find. Instead, sitting on Stiles’ bed was a box, one he knew without opening it, contained the iron dagger Stiles had told him about.

 

_I can’t stop it now. I tried to do it myself, but the fire wouldn’t let me. Come find me. Please, don’t let me hurt anyone else._

  
  


Derek swallowed hard. Stiles had been likely standing right where he was and had tried to kill himself to prevent anyone else from getting hurt. He wanted to run, to leave that box right there and pretend none of this had ever happened. He’d gladly have thrown himself in front of that witch’s curse, dying, if it meant he could save Stiles.

In his pocket, his phone rang.  “Hello?”

“Derek? Something’s wrong with Stiles.” Scott’s voice was frantic and terrified. “He sent me a text, and I think he’s going to hurt himself.”

“Did he say where he was?”

“No.”

“Get the pack together. I think time’s up, and Stiles has already evolved.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“See the news this morning, Scott?”

“No. Why?”

“Stiles killed Gerard and practically gift wrapped a way to kill him quickly. He called me over here and left it for me to find. Scott, I don’t think he can hold it back any longer.” He didn’t give Scott a chance to reply before he ended the call.

He sat down in Stiles’ computer chair to think.. Where would Stiles go. The box felt like lead in his lap. They’d had barely any time together. Derek was not ready to let him go yet; there had to be a way to bring him back. Was there a way to anchor an Ifrit? He didn’t know, and it was something he’d been researching in his free time for over a week. He found nothing.

Still, it was worth a try, and he searched around on his phone for a little while longer as he tried to come up with a plan. He had a small idea, and maybe it would work, maybe it wouldn’t.

Then, his eyes fell on a piece of paper just sitting there in plain sight. Attached to the back was a photo of the tattoos on Stiles’ right thigh. Derek recognized them easily, and once he read the small heading in Stiles’ messy scrawl, he knew exactly why these tattoos appeared where they were. It read: Establishing a Life Bond

  
  


* * * * *

  
  


Stiles crashed through the trees in the preserve, dodging them as best as he could, for any time he touched one, it turned to a pillar of ash. He’d lost count of how many trees he’d destroyed already. As he ran, his wings forced themselves through the skin on his back. Now his leathery pinions, with a span almost as wide as he was tall, kept getting caught on branches. More than once as he ran, he found himself forced back to the ground as his wings snagged and snapped him back like a rubber band.

He was crying; he knew that. He just couldn’t stop. As time ticked on, he felt more and more of himself, his identity slipping away only to be replaced with thoughts of rage and mayhem, embracing them like he was made for it. Before long he knew there would be nothing left of all that made him Stiles.

He would be fire and destruction, and little else.

Honestly, he had no idea how the pack was going to fix this. If he couldn’t force that dagger into his chest, that meant someone else would have to. Yet, when he lost the fight and flames forced their way out of his skin, he knew to have anyone else do so, could prove disastrous. Maybe Kira would be okay if she volunteered. If she could survive a live wire, maybe fire wouldn’t hurt her. Though, he doubted she’d have the constitution to commit a mercy kill. It didn’t seem like her.

His feet slid to a stop in a clearing near the middle of the preserve, and he lost his tenuous hold on himself.

His new form, the terrifying one he’d fought so hard against, came to the forefront as he grew in height until he knew he’d tower over the pack. Surrounding him now, was a literal ring of fire comprised of flames chest high. They'd serve as protection.

His vision turned red, and Stiles as he knew himself, started to shrink back to the deepest recesses of his mind, still fighting the darkness with every breath, moments of clarity bursting through every so often.

Maybe he’d be strong enough.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Derek, slow down!” Scott yelled after him.

However, he couldn’t. After the pack had spent more than three hours searching for Stiles, that faint hint of spicy smoke finally wafted into town. Since then, he’d been running furiously for the preserve, the rest of the pack hot on his heels (Lydia, Argent, and John following in the Sheriff’s cruiser). He had to get there and try to bring Stiles back from whatever dark edge he was teetering upon.

When he started noticing fewer trees and the burned smell growing in intensity, he knew they were getting close. He slowed to wait for Scott and Isaac. Peter straggled behind, but Derek couldn't say he faulted the guy. He had a pretty good inkling that being close to a fire was the last thing his uncle would want ever again.

Scott and Isaac almost crashed into his back as they skidded to a stop.

Derek stared at what he could only assume was Stiles, if Stiles were a towering figure with red skin and giant wings. He had his back to them, and Derek could tell just by the way he held his shoulders, his posture full of power and danger, that the Stiles before them was less Stiles and more Ifrit.

Stiles must have noticed their arrival and looked over his shoulder, the cockiest grin Derek had ever seen plastered across his face, and yet malice in his glowing red eyes. So… not his Stiles at the moment.

“Hey, Babe. So nice of you to visit.” He gave his wings a shake and lifted off the ground.

Scott blinked, unable to tear his face away from his best friend hovering ten feet above the ground, his massive wings fanning the flames surrounding him. “Stiles…”

Stiles noticed his gaze and laughed, doing a little barrel roll in the air to show off. “Aren’t they glorious? And I thought being a falcon was fun.  _This?_ This is exponentially better,” he smiled, his booming voice vibrating in the air around him.

Scott took a tentative step forward, hands up in surrender. “Stiles, this isn’t you. The Stiles I know wouldn’t murder someone in cold blood.”

Stiles snapped his fingers and sent a whip of smoke and fire towards Scott, hitting him in the cheek. He winced, but the skin healed relatively quickly. Anytime anyone else tried to come closer, Stiles did the same thing.

“Get out of him!” Scott yelled.

“I’m not in him; I  _am_ him. This isn’t a possession. Look, I find it valiant that you want to save your friend, but he is supposed to be this, was always going to be what you see before you, strong, calculating, powerful. I'm just the dark side of himself.” He clicked his tongue and cocked his head to the side.. “But that’s the problem with power. It is so easy to seduce someone with the idea of it. It would have been so much easier if he’d just accepted the change outright. I mean, I even tried to sway him with the idea of bringing his mother back from the beyond.”

Derek shuddered when Stiles laughed, practically cackling with glee. That voice, demonic and deep, just shouldn't laugh. It sounded, at once so hollow but also... well, sassy. Sure, Derek knew Stiles could snark with the best of them. But this Stiles sounded needlessly cruel. Though, Derek supposed an Ifrit  _was_ cruel. It seemed like a requirement of the form. Stiles  even looked wrong as he laughed.  His posture was stiff, shoulders squared. The Stiles Derek knew, the one he loved, laughed with his whole body, embraced it. “Stiles, listen to me! You have to fight this!”

Stiles rolled his eyes at him. “Give it a rest, would you? Fighting this change was never a possibility, but Stiles saw through that empty promise, and instead I had to force my way out while sleeping. The beauty of it all, is that your precious Stiles, the insecure but lionhearted guy you know, is still in here,” he tapped his head, “trying to fight this change. It would be admirable if it weren’t so fucking pathetic. If he would just embrace that part of him, of  _us_ he’s always denied, life would be so much better… For me, not you all. You’re screwed either way. But I would be like a god. Speaking of that...what kind of lame ass name is Stiles? Who let him pick that? Look at me. Do I look like a Stiles?” He paused. “Maciej, yeah. Now there's a name worthy of this form. More like Maciej the Magnificent or Maciej the Malevolent. Hell, even Maciej the Way More Awesome than Stiles.” With a flick of his wrist he ignited several trees nearby.

As they burned, Derek watched plumes of black acrid smoke into the the air, smoke which curled above their heads. It was not even noon, but the darkened sky looked more like dusk.

“This new Stiles you’re looking at, is just the darkness in his brain being given enough power to override the rest of him.” Maciej stretched his limbs as he touched down. “I dunno about you, but he really likes what I’ve done with the place.”

“Bullshit,” Derek hissed. “If he wanted this so badly, he wouldn’t have fought it as hard as he did.”  _He wouldn’t have told me how to kill him_ .

  
  


  
  


  
  


“Did he? Did he really?” Out of the corner of his eye, Maciej noticed Isaac and Malia trying to get closer, and just like he had with Scott, snapped each of them with a rope of fire. “Look at the puny little Alpha. I don’t know what you’re trying to accomplish, but your little werewolf claws can do absolutely _nothing_ to me. Oh… and before anyone gets any brilliant ideas, water doesn’t hurt me anymore either. It just steams off my skin. I’m my own walking sauna.” Just for theatrics, he reached up and touched the leaves dangling above his head, sending fire running down the branches, which happened to connect with a trunk next to Peter. As the rest of the tree caught fire, the man whimpered and jumped back. “What's the matter? Too hot for you, Peter?”

Peter kept back-pedaling away from the group. “I’m sorry...I can’t- I can’t be here.” He beat a hasty retreat.

“Damn it, would you quit trying to fight me off, Stiles? You won't win.” Maciej flinched, rolling his head side to side in jerky spastic movements. Then, his whole posture sagged.

“Stiles, keep fighting. You’re strong; I know you can stop this,” Derek pleaded with him.

  
  


  
  


Stiles blinked, momentarily regaining control over his mind. The buzz of electricity under his skin that Stiles had come to savor each time he used any of his power, was now too much to handle. As though continuous bolts of lightning kept striking him, his muscles tensed and released against his will. Every jolt threatened his tenuous hold. Deep inside, down in the marrow of his bones, he felt his cells bursting into flames. Soon, there would be nothing left of him to save.

He just didn’t expect it to hurt so much.

With a shiver, Stiles lost control.

  
  


  
  


“Oh you clever, clever wolf. You’ve learned his tells. Not too much longer and the change will be too powerful to stop. He’s really going to miss you.” Still hovering, Maciej did a backflip in the air. “You know, if circumstances were a little different, he’d probably be with you forever… oh who am I kidding? You are holding him back!”

That wasn’t Stiles, not  _his_ Stiles anyway, and yet the words hurt Derek like knives.

Scott tried again to get through to his best friend, to pull him back. “You turned him into a killer!”

“Killer schmiller,” Maciej laughed. “Do you think  _anyone_ will actually miss them? Yeah, sorry about taking out your Daddy, Argent, but let’s be real here. With everything he’d done, all you could do with him is put him in a home. How many people did he hurt? You forget, Scotty, that man helped kill children!”

Derek whimpered, and the thing (because that is exactly what stood in front of him, a thing. That was not Stiles. He couldn't even use his name when addressing it.) had the audacity to smirk.

“Were his victims ever going to get justice? Nope,” he let the ‘p’ pop off his lips with a deafening smack. “Those men in the prison? You think they were innocent? Between ten of them there were thirteen counts of murder, six counts of rape, one human trafficking conviction, and one man actually starved his five year old to death. Don’t forget the hunters who kidnapped and tortured your precious Stiles. I didn’t turn him into a killer. I unleashed the power within him to do the world a service! Once he stops fighting, think of the good we could do!” He lurched forward like he’d been kicked from the inside. “Oh would you stop fighting in there? You’re not going to win. A green djinni against an Ifrit? You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. You thought just being what your were was how your mother’s pathetic wish backfired? Fuck, no. Going red was how it backfired.” With a wave of his hand, he whipped the flames around him into a frenzy, turning them into a swirling vortex.

When Stiles’ skin began to glow like lava, Derek could hardly stomach watching the scene unfold before him. It was like he was witnessing him dying right in front of him. Knowing time was running out, he pulled the metaphorical ace from his sleeve. “Wróć do mnie, moja miłość. Nie odchodź, proszę.” He didn’t even know if he pronounced it right or even if he'd used the right words.

His attempt at anchoring him had apparently worked. A flash of recognition worked its way across Stiles’ face. They had him back, but for how long?

Everyone stood, holding their breaths, apprehension on their faces. They all looked unsure of what to do, including Derek. That is, until Stiles regained full control. His scream as he burst into flames turned Derek’s blood to ice.

  
  


 

 


	25. Blue Light Special

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track listing:  
> “Man on Fire”- Otherwise  
> “Farewell”- Apocalyptica

“Stiles?” Derek asked, his voice breaking.

Stiles panted, his face scrunched up in exertion and something else. Pain?

“Yeah. I don’t know how long I can hold it back, Derek.”

Derek watched the tears that had welled up in Stiles’ eyes spill over and turn to steam as they struck his skin. “Fight it. Don’t give up. You’re so strong. You can do this.” Even he was crying at that point.

Stiles whimpered, but his cry was lost among the whoosh of the fire, the crackle of flames. “My bones feel like they’re on fire, and once I run out of strength it’s over for me. You will _never_ get me back.”

“Please,” Derek took a step closer, but the flames had a mind of their own and expanded, whipping around Stiles. With the fire came wind, which only fanned the flames. He was the eye of a fiery hurricane, and Derek could get no closer. “Try harder. Find an anchor and hold on tight. Please.”

Stiles closed his eyes as though he couldn’t bear to look at the desperate look on Derek’s face, like he just knew the way he looked at the moment had to remind Derek of losing his family. “I don’t think finding an anchor will work.”

“No, please fight.” He hung his head, looking at that distorted version of Stiles was too painful. “Don’t leave me here alone.”

Stiles choked back a sob. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to, but I’m running out of time.” He hissed as the flames emanating from his body increased in intensity. “It hurts so badly.” The conviction in his voice wavered. “Did you bring it?”

Derek stuck his hand in his jacket pocket, his fingers wrapping around the hilt of the dagger. He couldn’t force himself to remove bring it out. “Yeah.”

Stiles swallowed hard. “Kick it to me.”

“Don’t do this, Stiles. Please. We’ll find a way.”

“Derek, I told you about it because I trusted you.”

"I can't do that that, Stiles! You can't ask me to do that!"

“I don’t want to hurt anyone else!”

“You’d be hurting _me.”_

“I have to do this, to save everyone I can, Derek! Kick the knife over here, and then get everyone away! I don't want anyone to watch!"

Derek nodded even though his heart was breaking. Yet, when he kicked the dagger over, the fire, with a mind of its own, sent it back towards him. He managed to catch it before it sailed past him towards Lydia, but only barely. He tried again, and again. Though Stiles was in control of his thoughts, the flames, it seemed were alight with self-preservation.

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles stared at him, eyes wide in fear, afraid of the change, afraid of what came next, afraid, afraid, afraid. He looked over at Derek's dejected form, mouthing an 'I love you' in hopes it would ease some of his pain. For a brief moment though, as their eyes met, Stiles swore he could see the moment Derek made a choice. He felt his stomach drop. "No! Stay back! Please, don't!"

Before he could plead his case further, Derek, dagger at the ready, rushed at him.

"Derek, stop! Don't do this, Derek, please!"

 

 

 

  
Each step closer to the flames was agony, but he'd made his decision. Derek had no desire to remain of this world if Stiles was no longer in it.

He felt his clothes burning away, the smoke stealing the breath from his throat, and he grew sick to his stomach. This had to be how Peter felt trapped in the fire, how he felt when the Molotov cocktail hit him. Still, he forced himself to push forward, trying to ignore Stiles' desperate pleas for him to turn back.

"Damn it, Derek! You're not Wolverine! This will kill you!" Stiles flinched.

Clothing mostly burned, hair nearly gone, Derek coughed. "I'm counting on it."

"Go back!" Stiles' voice broke with emotion. "I don't want this for you."

As he pushed against the wall of fire, Derek felt his strength waning. He still had so far to go before he could reach Stiles. A failure, he’d always been one, and it seemed like he'd die one too. "You go, I go."

 

 

 

  
Stiles heart broke at the sight of him, at the sound of him. "Wilczek," he sobbed, "this isn't _Titanic._ I...I-" When he watched Derek collapse--his eyes closed, lips parted, a look of agony on his face--a white hot anger built in his stomach, growing rapidly. Stiles' nostrils flared, and instead of struggling, he pushed back at the darkness in his mind with everything he had. With a wave of his hand he cast Derek out of the flames towards the pack.

No one else was dying because of him.

He inhaled and swallowed as much smoke as he could, fully expecting his vision to either stay red or black out completely, but he almost broke focus when blue began to creep in. Wha- No! Stiles couldn't let anything distract him. Lungs and stomach filled with the acrid smoke, he wished for that smoke to change, to level off and revert back to the way it was when it gave him strength, when it saved his life.

Though it felt like hours, Stiles knew only seconds had passed before he could taste the change. No longer caustic, the smoke was spicy almost sweet. Forcing deep breaths into his chest, Stiles pictured the tattoo on his right thigh as clearly as he could, and in his mind, recited the required words to bring it to life.

_With all my power, I repair the harm_

_To set things right, and back to the norm_

_The pain I caused, I shall undo_

_I take my life and give to you_

_To use, control as you see fit_

_And be in your debt for the rest of it_

 

As soon as the last word left his lips, the wind changed. It came over the hill behind him like a wave, a great whoosh in his ears. Before he even had a chance to blink, the swirling flames surrounding him flickered like a candle and went out, leaving behind cobalt colored smoke, plumes of it, not wisps. Smoke that rushed over to Derek, covering him in a thick blanket. Once Derek was completely enveloped in it, Stiles felt himself forced to his knees by a violent, invisible force, one against which he could not fight, nor struggle.

He didn't want to.

Stiles watched, his breath caught in his throat, stuck there with invisible barbs, as the horrible burns and blacked flesh that covered Derek's body began to heal. The more the smoke worked to repair the damage--the damage Stiles had caused--the brighter the smoke became until it eventually glowed, illuminating the area around the pack in a brilliant blue light, brighter than the sky or even the light of a full moon.

Stiles was so invested in the scene unfolding before his eyes that it took a while for the pain to register. What he first attributed to the residuals of his struggle with his Ifrit side, slowly took over until his mind was clouded with pain. He realized what was happening after a few moments. While Derek healed, his pain was becoming Stiles' pain. As the last burn healed on Derek's skin, Stiles breathed a sigh of relief to find the pain alleviating.

That is until an entirely new pain took its place.

With Derek good as new, but unconscious, the smoke descended on Stiles. Ribbons of the blue fog lashed themselves around his wrists, around his neck. Bright rays of light shot out in every direction. They lit up the Preserve like fireworks, and just as loud. Stiles would have made a joke about how he felt a bit like the Beast in Disney's version of _Beauty and the Beast_ if every nerve in his body, every cell, every fiber of his being wasn't screaming like he was being tortured.

He soon realized, that he too, was screaming, yelling out in agony, confused and terrified. The pain--he'd felt something similar when the hunters grabbed him-- made his gut churn. However, _that_ was merely a papercut compared to now. This was, by far, the worst pain he'd ever felt. This was absolute agony, like millions of tiny needles were puncturing his bones, leaving behind lava in their wake.

Hissing through clenched teeth, he tried to breathe through it. He'd saved Derek, seemingly done the impossible and pulled himself back from the clutches of his Ifrit form. Whatever happened to him now didn't matter.

But he couldn't stop screaming.

 

 

 

 

 

John finally made it to the clearing, receiving Scott’s frantic message, one which drew him away from work. He arrived just in time to see his son, body contorted and writhing on the ground in front of him in pain. He wanted to run to him, to help him- hold his son like he had when he was a small child as he rubbed his back with the reassurance everything would be alright. John was confused.

He hadn’t received much in the way of information from Scott. For all he knew, he was watching Stiles’ last moments, and the thought cut him deeply. To his left, he saw Derek’s still and crumpled form. Had Stiles done that? Was his current state a result of hurting Derek, self-induced? Stiles always had been one to internalize things, carry blame on his shoulders, even if it had not been his fault. Hell, the kid had been beside himself over Allison, and _that_ had been the Nogitsune’s fault. There had been moments in the weeks that followed, John lived in constant fear he’d come home to Stiles’ dead body, the kid having killed himself out of guilt. He shuddered to think what Stiles would do if he’d caused for the death of someone he loved. If Stiles was directly responsible for Derek’s motionless, and for all he knew, lifeless body, John knew there would be nothing to stop Stiles from hurting himself. However, a noise to his left, brought John out of his head, a noise that made him let out a sigh of relief.

 

 

 

 

 

Derek sputtered as air returned to his lungs, regaining consciousness to the worst sound he'd ever heard. His eyelids, though heavy like lead, opened and he turned his head in the direction of the sound to see Stiles convulsing on the ground. The noises coming from his lips sounded like he was being murdered, and Derek whimpered. Had he managed to do the unthinkable and plunge that dagger into Stiles' chest? If so, Derek did not want to be alive anymore. He'd lost too much, and the guilt over killing the love of his life would destroy him. The sound of his screams was too much for him, and he clamped his hands down over his ears, begging for it to stop.

It felt like forever before the clearing in the Preserve grew silent. Well, silent except for the shocked heartbeats of the pack, and Stiles' shallow breaths in between quiet sobs.

When Derek felt some strength return to his limbs, he crawled over to his boyfriend. Stiles sat there on his knees, his weight back on his heels as he stared down at his wrists. Derek cupped his chin and turned his face up to meet him. "You... you're okay. How?"

Stiles blinked and looked at him with glazed over eyes. He took a breath and collapsed into Derek's chest, crying with great heaving breaths.

"How did you do it, fight it off?"

 

 

 

 

 

 

"I-" Stiles' voice cracked. He couldn't speak; the only thing he could do was stare down at his wrists and the new tattoos surrounding them. Underneath his skin, deep down, encircling his bones, he could feel them, the iron cuffs fused to him. He rubbed at his neck where the skin just above his collarbone stung. His fingers palpated the area gingerly, traveling over his shoulders and around the back. There was probably another new marking there. He knew what lie under the skin there too.

A collar.

He closed his eyes as he sobbed. He'd saved Derek, so he knew it was worth it, but the cost, the cost to do so would break him.

As Derek watched Stiles with cautious eyes, taking in the new tattoos, Stiles watched realization settle into his features. It didn't take a genius to figure out what their location meant.

"Stiles,"Derek said, his voice soft and shaky, "what did you do?"

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles held up his wrists and knocked them together. Though he could see nothing but ink, Derek heard a distinct clang like metal striking against metal.

'You have full control now." Stiles voice was barely louder than a whisper. "I can't go Ifrit again. No wishes hanging over your head. No fear that people will be able to steal me and use me how they see fit. That's...your privilege now."

His heart constricted in his chest. "What did you do?"

"My life is yours."

"For how long?"

Stiles couldn't look at him. "All of it. You're a full djinni owner now."

Derek wiped the tears away from Stiles' cheeks, ignoring his own on his face. "Stiles, no one owns you."

"Yes, you do. It was the only way to save you. I’d do it a hundred times over."

"You're not property. What if I reject ownership?" Derek's question came out louder and more stern than he intended.

Broken, Stiles' shoulders sagged in defeat. "Is that what you want?" Stiles stood and walked away. "Okay."

Derek stumbled after him. "Stiles, wait! I don't want to do that, not if I don't know what will happen if I do or what happens to you."

Stiles turned around, and lip quivering, stared at Derek like he was the last thing Stiles would ever see. "I...it will kill me."

"Why would you do that for me?" He stumbled in shock

"I'd do anything and everything for you, Wilczek." He caressed Derek's cheek.

Derek reached out and took Stiles' hands, running his fingers over the indelible bracelets.

"Why don't you want me? Aside from all that sleepwalking shit, I've been a good djinni right?" Stiles voice was small, tiny even, and he looked like he wanted to run away.

His words hit Derek like a kick to the stomach. “It's not that. You're no one's property. I can't do that to you. Even if I wouldn't hurt you or make you do anything. I'd still be like them, the hunters who enslaved wolves. I don't want you to be a slave."

 

 

 

 

 

Stiles succumbed to the mounting panic coursing through his veins. "Please don't reject ownership. I never wanted- I don't want to die. You could just order me away then! You’d never have to see me again!"

"No, I couldn't." Derek took both stiles hands in one of his.

Though Derek’s lips moved, Stiles couldn't hear his words. A flash of light caught his attention, and he looked down to see the marks on his wrists, turn blue. Derek covered the marking over Stiles' heart with his hand, and when he heard Derek's soft whimper of pain, Stiles' eyes widened in shock. "Derek, stop! You don't have to do this! When I saved you it was no strings attached." He couldn't bare to look at the marks on Derek's wrists, bracelets to match his own.

 

 

 

 

 

Derek took Stiles' face in his hands, his thumbs caressing Stiles' cheeks as he forced him to look at him. Instead of green, orange, or even red flashes of swirling color after Stiles had used his powers or was in emotional duress, Derek watched brown give way to shining and brilliant blue. His breath caught in his throat. Not as icy in color as his own, but he couldn’t help but feel more connected to him than he’d ever been. He’d ask him later about the color change to not just his eyes but also the rest of the tattoos which were slowly turning from red to blue. "I could never send you away. Now, we're on equal footing, Stiles. Neither one has power over the other."

Stiles wrapped a shaking hand around the back of Derek's neck. "How did you even know about the life bond?"

"The paper was just sitting there on your desk when I grabbed the dagger, almost like you left it for me. I thought it might save you." He leaned forward and kissed Stiles, his tongue coaxing open slightly parted lips. He'd almost lost him, been willing to die alongside him rather than face the rest of his life without him.

A mutual life bond? Totally better than the alternative.

 


	26. Shotgunning In a Crowded Room

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Track Listing:  
> “Breath Me”- Sia  
> “Fix Me”- 10 Years

Derek’s hand wrapped tightly around Stiles' as they walked into the crowded club. Unlike the last one he’d been in, he did not mind the pulsing beat of the music, the mix of a million different scents, some good some...not so much. The flashing lights of several colors danced on the ceiling, the floors, and bounced off the bodies of the patrons. By the DJ booth, Derek could see smoke machines sending waves of fog into the crowd. Despite all the other smells he could overlook, this one bothered his nose and, by proxy, him. It wasn’t that it had a bad scent. It was just…

Stiles’ smoke smelled so much better, tasted better too.

Behind him, Stiles tugged on his hand. He hadn’t wanted to come out tonight at all, mumbling something about a shit ton of reading he had to do for Monday. As it was, Derek had to practically drag him out the front door of their townhouse a couple miles from Temple (the same one Stiles scolded him from buying. "Don't buy a place, Derek. I don't plan on staying there after school." Derek had ignored his complaints), but first, he’d had to coax him down from his favorite place to study: Hovering on a pillow of blue smoke in the corner of the living room, mere feet from the ceiling. Derek asked him a month ago, why he took to doing homework that way, and Stiles had simply replied with a smirk, ‘You can’t touch me up here. Less distractions.’

Hovering? Totally a new thing.

After that day in the Preserve, when both his and Stiles’ lives changed and became permanently intertwined and unbreakably linked together--not that Derek would change a thing--Derek held Stiles’ shaking hand as they paid a visit to Deaton, just to be sure Stiles would not go Dark Side again (Stiles’ words not his)...

 

…” _You’re joking. You have to be.” Stiles’ eyes damn near bugged out of his head when the doc shook his head no. “A marid? I turn Ifrit and kill people, and somehow the universe deems me worthy of turning blue djinni?”_

_Mirth filled Deaton’s eyes. “Every source I have, every text I can find, liken it to finding enlightenment, traveling through bardo...facing and beating your demons. It’s a reward. Stiles, once a djinni goes Ifrit, they rarely come back, and redeeming one is even harder, especially given their propensity to kill."_

_"Doc, I did that too."_

_"Well maybe the fact you only went after killers and those that harmed others worked in your favor. You somehow managed to fight back against the darkness and come out stronger on the other side. Or maybe it was what you were willing to give up in order to save a life. I don't know Stiles; I'm not an expert on the djinn."_

_Stiles worried his thumbnail between his teeth. Derek knew he didn't feel that he deserved this 'mystical reward' or whatever the hell it was. When Stiles was just about to lose himself to wallowing in guilt, Derek' wrapped a warm and comforting hand around the back of Stiles' neck..._

 

...Lost in the a dense throng of people with little space for dancing, Stiles tugged on Derek's hand, pulling him back to face him. "It's way too crowded in here."

Derek chuckled and looked up at him, a fact of which he was still getting used to. The two of them used to be able to see eye-to-eye, literally, and now, especially after Stiles' latest color change, Derek found himself several inches shorter than his boyfriend. Not that he minded, especially with Stiles' added strength.

Stiles had filled him in on what it meant to be a blue djinni, how much stronger he was, how much more powerful. He'd even hinted that it was a good thing he was bonded, because otherwise? To the trained eye (witches, fae, hunters who paid attention) he had a detectable blue aura now, and he'd make an irresistible target for anyone looking to use his power. The tattooed cuffs and collar served as one big deterrent.

Not that Derek felt any better about them.

He wrapped his arms around Stiles' waist, holding him close, his lips inches from Stiles' ear. "Dance with me." He trailed a line of kisses down his neck, stopping to plant a hot open mouthed one on Stiles' collarbone, right on top of his tattoo. He felt pain leaching from Stiles into his body. Stiles had tried to hide the fact the iron fused to his bones left him in constant pain. It took Derek accidentally pulling what Stiles referred to as ‘Werewolf Pain Vacuum’ for him to realize it…

 

…” _What’s the matter, Stiles?”_

“ _What do you mean?”_

“ _Why are you in so much pain? What happened?” Derek’s brows furrowed with concern._

_Stiles rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh that. That’s a by-product.”_

“ _Of what?”_

_Stiles knocked his wrists together, the harsh clang echoing through the apartment._

“ _How often does it hurt?”_

_Stiles shrugged. “Dunno.”_

_Derek heard the lie clearly and took Stiles’ hand to pull away as much pain as possible. “How often?”_

“ _All the time. I’ve learned to deal with it. It’s more like a nuisance now.”_

_Another lie. Derek felt overwhelmed with guilt._

“ _No, don’t do that. Don’t take this as a reason to turn my pain into some misplaced self-loathing that you internalize. I chose this. I’d choose it every time if it meant I’d be spared the alternative of you dying.”..._

 

...Stiles had eventually relented and stopped fighting Derek’s attempts to alleviate his quiet suffering. Before Stiles could stop him, Derek began swaying his hips.

 

 

 

 

 

"S'that a command?" Stiles was near breathless already, but he didn't stop Derek, and instead danced along.

"No," Derek mumbled against his skin, "just a suggestion."

Stiles pulled back, and with a smirk, stared at him, his eyes were swirls of blue. "Good suggestion."

Stiles let the music and Derek's strong hands pull him out of his head. The music had a hypnotic beat; it made it easy to forget about how much homework he had and just live in the moment. He wrapped a hand around the back of Derek's head, meeting his lips as he embraced one of his favorite perks about their bond. Once he evolved into a marid djinn, Stiles no longer needed his hookah or anything for that matter; he made his own smoke. As they kissed, he blew a lungful of smoke into Derek's mouth, the temperature perfectly suited to his boyfriend's liking. Derek pulled back and exhaled, small wisps of smoke escaping with his breath.

Never would Stiles have guessed that Derek would enjoy the feel of smoke in his lungs, savoring it's spicy yet sweet flavor. Nor did he think Derek would come to crave the way it made his skin buzz with energy the way Stiles' did all the time, but that he would also find it so damn hot. Derek told him there was something so inherently intimate about Stiles sharing his smoke with him ( _"No, Stiles. I am never going to call it shotgunning. That makes it sound like a frat guy downing a whole can of beer or a stoner. It's better than that._ "), and that didn't even touch on the power transference that happened each time. The first time the smoke allowed Derek to complete a full wolf shift, he almost cried.

Stiles leaned forward and kissed Derek's forehead. "I will never get tired of how that feels." As the beat of the music slowed down into a sensuous and sexy beat, Stiles held him close. After so much wasted time, near death experiences on both their parts, almost losing himself to his Ifrit side, they finally had their dance.

The more he thought about it, really dug within himself and understood his place in the world, the more he began to realize he wasn't a wish that backfired. He was one wish that had gone exactly right. He looked up and smiled, his words barely above a whisper. "Thanks, Mamusia."

  
  


  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://www.captaintinymite.tumblr.com)


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